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Chapter One: The Fall of Uther Lightbringer
Scraped from here.
The Order of the Black Heart: Part One
The Fall of Uther Lightbringer
A Warcraft III AU
The afternoon light covered a bloody battlefield. Over two hundred ravaged corpses were scattered all around the camp ground in various states of decomposition. Bones and skulls had been smashed apart and from them blood flowed into the earth in various colors. Much of that blood was not, in fact, fresh. It was decayed, rotted and sticky as it flowed out from what had originally been a large group of undead ghouls.
Across the bridge, flames burned across the villages and forests that the monsters had passed through and in the distance screams could still be heard as the few remaining living in the area were hunted down to be consumed or raised. Massive black greaves with skull decals on the kneecaps clanked as they walked forward over corpses, heedlessly squishing into bodies bloated by death. A veritable mob, over a thousand strong, growled, shambled, and followed behind.
In the center of the camp kneeled a middle aged man corded in muscle, clad in gargantuan plate armor, and wielding an enormous warhammer. Both had once been gleaming and beautiful, but the past hour of combat had turned wondrous silver and gold colors into blood splattered scarlet and brown. Rents ripped into the thorium plates had not been dealt with mighty single blows but had instead been worn in by dozens of ravaging, screaming, leaping ghouls, and the chain mail underneath was worn and torn, though the warhammer itself remained gleaming with a faint holy glow. Along his hip attached to a chain was a massive prayer book, well-worn with care and age.
His name was Uther Lightbringer, one of the greatest paladins to walk Azeroth. He was a war hero several times over, and had crossed hundreds of battlefields. His powers over the Light were unquestionably powerful, and his martial skills were considered to be the best out of the entire order of paladins that he had helped found.
He would be dead soon.
Uther breathed deeply as he wearily stood, leaning on the warhammer for support and cast his eyes around the camp ground, bowing his head at the sight of good men and women buried underneath the enemy, their armored bodies carpeted by foes that had outnumbered them more than twenty to one. They'd given a good accounting of themselves, but at this point it was quite clear how things were going to go. Metal boots rang against cobblestone as he looked up again at some of the last true defenders of Lordaeron.
Gavinrad the Dire and Sage Truthbearer led their men over the land bridge, all in far worse a condition than he. Each had but a handful of soldiers with them, and all were injured. A woman clutched her stomach bandages that already had red soaking through, but still kept pace with a stoic grimace on her face. Another man was carried, his arms hooked over the shoulders of two of his fellows, moaning in pain at the loss of his left leg below the knee. All were bleeding and injured in some manner or another, but still they came.
Both Sage and Gavinrad were mighty paladins of the Order of the Silver Hand, disbanded by the petty rage of a prince in name, but not in purpose or membership. The survivors too injured to stand were carefully placed in a cleared patch of grass, medics frantically working to keep them conscious. He walked forwards carefully over the bodies until he reached them.
"Uther, thank the Light you're still alive," said Gavinrad, a muscled arm slapping the pauldron that was not nearly shorn in two.
"I suppose, though at this point I'm not too confident of that lasting the rest of the afternoon." Uther replied ruefully, even as he cast his gaze to where they had just come.
"I'd ask the situation, but…" Gavinrad trailed off as Sage gave them both a sad smile before heading over to the injured. Prayers and beseechs for healing came from him and out of the corner of their eyes they could see the brilliant glow of the Light envelop him and hear the groans of pain be replaced with groans of relief.
"It's pretty obvious without me answering that, but I'll tell you. All of our camps were assaulted at the same time it seems. I appreciate that you thought to come to mine, but as you can see, they swarmed out of the woods in the darkness before the scouts could say anything, and I am the only one left," Uther stated plainly even though his white knuckled grip on his weapon belied his inner fury.
Gavinrad gave a bone-deep sigh as he nodded.
"The buildings gave us cover, but they hit Sage from behind. He gave a good accounting of himself, but his strengths always leaned towards healing than offense," he said to Uther's nod.
Uther looked out and cocked his head to the left, and closed his eyes. Far off in the distance, black armor creaked. It was coming closer. His eyes opened as he thought of something else.
"Gavinrad, what of Ballador the Bright? He was situated between Sage's camp and yours, was it not?"
The response was foreboding.
"Of him, there was no trace. There were signs of a great struggle, but his camp was aflame, abandoned, and uninhabited by the living or the dead. The village had been emptied as well."
Uther frowned at that even as another part of his heart died at the loss of a good and strong brother. He opened his mouth to speak when an unspeakable foulness intruded upon his senses; the Light seemed to shriek as he whirled, along with Gavinrad, to face the bridge. Behind them they could hear Sage doing the same.
Standing there facing them was death. Clad in a black twisted mockery of their armors, was the agent of the kingdoms doom. A dark hooded cloak cast a shadow over his features. In contrast to their battered and weary forms, the dark black and grey armor was almost…pristine. The only sign that its wearer had faced battle recently was the blood splatters on the fore-arms and greaves.
Behind the figure came a horde of undead clearly screaming for their blood. They stretched back into the village and out again, into the forests beyond where the eye could see. Some shambled, others walked plainly, and still more hung onto doors, rooftops, and walls with bones sharpened into claws as rotten torsos dragged themselves along. They screeched, moaned, and squealed, a cacophony of horror reaching the smoke filled skies.
At a single gesture, an arm raised to the side, and the undead quieted as an orchestra before the conductor. With the same arm a hand grabbed the lip of the hood and peeled it back to reveal the smirking grey face of Arthas Menethil, Traitor Prince of Lordaeron and murderer.
"Ah, Uther! Such a surprise to see you, what brings you out here on this fine day?" he said blandly, as if the two had simply met on a walk in the woods out of sheer chance. As if he had not slaughtered his way into and out of the Capital and across the kingdom sparing no man, woman or child.
Gavinrad snarled and made to advance with his warhammer raised threateningly but was halted by a hand on his arm from Uther, who shook his head.
"Why Arthas? All of this, and that question even now burns at my soul. Why? Your father ruled this land for seventy years, and in a matter of days you've managed to ground it to dust!" his voice had steadily raised until by 'dust' it had become a shout.
"Very…dramatic, Uther. I've been told you have a very special urn in your possession by my master. I've come to take it," Arthas said while slowly unsheathing the cursed blade at his side. Frost spontaneously began to propagate from the sword and drifted down to the ground where ice began to creep over the earth. Unholy light began to glow in the eyes of the undead behind him.
"That urn holds the King's ashes, betrayer! What, did you come here to piss on your father one last time before leaving the kingdom to rot!?!" Gavinrad roared as he broke free of Uther's grasp.
Arthas laughed, a deep and raspy thing, before twitching a finger and unleashing thirty of the ghouls accompanying him. They loped out of the crowd and fell upon the paladin in a wave of necrotic fury.
Gavinrad the Dire was one of the founding members of the Silver Hand. Of those founders, he was more muscular than Uther, taller than Tirion and Turalyon, and had a temper that outshone Saidan. Divine light shone around his body and his warhammer crackled with the power as it crushed ghoul corpses and whipped back and forth like wind in a storm.
He lasted forty seconds before the tide overwhelmed him.
Arthas raised his chin and the ghouls stopped as if frozen in time before retreating back into the roiling mass of flesh and bone behind him. His arm lifted again and a purple ribbon of magic flew out from his hand to grab Gavinrad, wrenching him up and towards him until the man was suspended in the air before him. Gavinrad, bleeding from over two dozen wounds, one of which had torn open his left check to expose his jaw, gave a deep guttural noise as his only unbroken limb struggled to grasp at Arthas to try and reach his throat. He was off by a three inches.
The death knight gave another laugh and, even as Uther and Sage began to move forward to rescue their comrade, slid his rune covered blade into Gavinrad's chest until it began poking its way out through the other side. Gavinrad the Dire passed from the world with a small sigh escaping his lips before his body was tossed to the ground.
Arthas leaned over him to look before grinning at his blade.
"Frostmourne. It's the name of the blade. So much better than the warhammer you gave me Gavinrad, I'm sure you can appreciate that I required a better weapon than that paltry weapon of the Light, right brother?" he said sardonically as he straightened to look at Uther.
"You have no right to call us that, Arthas. Your betrayal broke the hearts of the people and the Order. Any of us would have given our lives for you, and this is how you repay us?" Sage said angrily.
His healing had finished, and now a good forty men and women, some paladins, some not, stood to give one last defiant stand against the betrayer. They raised their weapons and formed up behind Truthbearer.
"I can call you whatever I like, after all, I am King," Arthas gave a laugh as he said so, raising both of his arms as if to encompass his entire 'kingdom'.
"You are no King of mine, bastard," Sage replied.
"Bastard? Why Sage! I had thought that of all your loyalty to my father that you would have more faith in my mother," Arthas laughed.
"Yes, loyalty. To Terenas, and to Lordaeron. Not to you, murderer," Uther said.
"Truly? You can't find it within your hearts to serve your King?" Arthas finished with a raised eyebrow.
"Never, Prince Arthas," said the paladin, his sentiments echoed by all the living.
At this, Arthas narrowed his eyes and as if in response the undead began to growl.
"Well. I can't very well have dissenters in the ranks, now can I? I ordered the Silver Hand disbanded, and in clear disobedience you refused to do so. Now, under my pathetic father that may have flown, but now I am King, and things are going to be a bit different. For instance, for challenging my rule, you die."
He raised Frostmourne until it pointed at, it felt like, Uther's very heart.
"Horribly."
At that signal, the undead surged forward and around him until the death knight was completely obscured from vision. With a cries of 'For Lordaeron' on their lips, Sage Truthbearer and forty soldiers charged into battle, silver and grey meeting red, green, and black.
Uther raised his warhammer high, and with a prayer on his lips enveloped the entire contingent in holy Light before leaping to battle himself. Villagers he'd known his whole life came to kill him, their eyes blank or filled with unholy power. His armor, damaged as it was, protected him well, even as the Light blasted forth from his body to incinerate dozens of undead and his hammer crushed those stronger ones who remained.
In the background, Uther could hear the twisted laugh of Arthas once more. Strangely, it quieted as another voice, smoky and dark, spoke over the death knight. But then he could spare no more attention on it as shambling out of the crowd came a massive abomination stitched together from over a dozen corpses. Its seams were fresh and to his horror he recognized the head that had been chosen to serve as its own.
Ballador the Bright's head sobbed and slobbered from its place atop the wobbling mountain of flesh as its meaty arms wildly swung massive cleavers and hooks unevenly from five different haphazardly placed limbs. In one, the only arm appearing normally sized, was the twisted paladin's warhammer. Uther was knocked to the ground by the beast but was saved by Sage who leapt upon the beast and set about its skull, crushing Ballador's head and ending the sobbing which Uther knew would haunt him for the next few minutes he would be alive.
Yet, even as he got to his feet he could only watch as Sage was covered in leaping ghouls that latched upon his face before falling off the dead behemoth. The last Uther saw of him was the head of his hammer underneath a growing pile.
Uther turned a dozen advancing skeletons to powder with his hammer before raising it above his head once more unleashing a blast of holy energy across the grounds. The life left a hundred of the undead, so tightly packed as they were, the dark magic's powering their motion burned out of their bodies by the Light.
Another abomination with the head of a Sasquatch shoved multiple ghouls aside in its haste to reach him, arms wielding twisted and spiked chains. In response he raised his warhammer and gave it a half circle turn before launching it towards the abominations center mass. Energy and a halo of the Light poured off of it as it picked up speed before impacting, the resulting explosion of flesh and color knocking many undead off of their feet.
Taking a running start, Uther bashed aside zombies with his gauntlets alone destroying them before leaping and grabbing the hilt of the warhammer by the very end and whirling it about like a sports tool destroying another set of undead before resetting his grip firmly with both hands.
Staring about in a rare split second of peace, his mind went into overdrive as he saw the last few living fighters be overwhelmed. In a small gap between charging zombies, he saw Arthas standing in exactly the same spot, a smirk on his face and the blade clasped with both hands with its point in the ground. His eyes widened however at the sight of the monstrous demonic form standing next to him.
Red armor and wings with dark whorls marked the creature even as its disturbingly humanoid and pale face with a foul grin on made Uther nearly gag in distaste. The Light burned strongest against demons, it always had, and the presence of this one seemed to have the light erupt inside Uther's bones like never before. He knew that he would fall here, but he'd be damned if he went without a fight. His eyes fell on the smirking Arthas, who despite everything seemed to tell that Uther was looking at him. The death knight's grin widened to show his teeth.
Uther charged then, his body blazing with the Light. His warhammer swung out and killed another abomination as he ran, dozens of undead burnt to their frames as the Light suffused Uther's being. Creatures more powerful than the normal rabble of mindless zombies rose from the tide to swipe at him and were destroyed in turn.
The man known as Lightbringer roared, the volume alone enough to shake the stones on the ground. Next to Arthas, the demon stepped back, an eyebrow raised in the death knight's direction. The prince shook his head with a snort and lifted Frostmourne. He rolled his shoulders and head back and forth before walking in a sedate manner towards the rushing paladin. Shadows seemed to darken as he strode forwards and in a mirror to Uther unholy energies grew and swirled about the death knight, a black and green corona of power surrounding him just as one of Light covered Uther.
Finally, the two met, warhammer meeting blade in a titanic clash. The resulting explosion as the two opposed forces met each other on levels both physical and magical destroyed numerous undead and sent a shockwave of pure force echoing outwards. Zombies collapsed and body parts of exploded undead flew everywhere. The demons wings were buffeted and pale lips curled in distaste before the red creature flew up and away to avoid being splattered.
Uther's warhammer seemed to sing in the Light as it continually crashed against the unholy blade that shrieked its own deadly song. Again and again they flew, neither finding purchase in their wielders bodies just yet. The fallen prince's smirk faded slightly as he was actually forced to concentrate on the fight.
When the warhammer cracked against his ribs and sent him flying back, the smirk had been replaced with a blank face even as rage began to grow in the death knights eyes. Arthas burst from the shattered remains of the wall in a great overhead slash that would have cut lesser men and weapons in twain, yet clattered uselessly against the metal shaft of Uther's weapon.
This was why frost claws coated the prince's free hand that sliced across the paladin's belly. Metal cracked and shattered and flesh was torn open. Uther grit his teeth and swung again trying to catch the prince even as he stumbled with one hand placed against the wound. The dark ice burned away at his innards but halted before it could seriously damage his organs as the Light cascaded over him to heal it.
"Feeling tired, Uther?" Arthas grunted, even as he shoved a piece of rib sticking out of his torso back into place.
"Shut up, Arthas," Uther growled back as the Light attempted to heal his injuries.
Then the battle was rejoined.
The fight would last for another hour, each matching all their martial skill and abilities. Uther had been stronger physically and in the Light before Arthas had taken up Frostmourne, but now unholy strength augmented the fallen prince to reach where time and experience had not yet been able to guide him. Slices opened up along Uther, each tearing at his body and soul as the cursed blade attempted to sate its hunger on him. In return, Uther cracked bones and armor.
They circled the town square, Arthas flying into the center fountain at one point, Uther's jaw smashing into the cobblestones at another. Both dealt grievous wounds to one another yet their respective energies either kept them moving when they had no right to as with Arthas or healing as with the paladin.
Finally, Uther lashed out with his warhammer and managed to catch Arthas along the wrist, sending Frostmourne flying yards away. Victory flashed in his eyes even as panic, for the first time, crossed the princes. The Light coming off of Uther seemed to magnify even as the dark energies coming off of Arthas faded. The prince stumbled and fell back, falling over the hooded cloak he had been wearing, and one of his arms raised up as if to catch the blow even though both knew that with Uther behind it all that would be accomplished was a snapped arm to accompany the crushed skull.
Uther's eyes widened, however, when massive clawed hands came about his head on both sides, and twisted his head all the way around until it was behind him. The last thing Uther Lightbringer saw was the smirking pale face of the demon.
Like a torch thrust into water the Light surrounding him disappeared, and his warhammer fell from suddenly limp fingers. The paladin collapsed limply to the earth, his neck snapped like a twig.
A ghoul dragged Frostmourne back into Arthas's grip as he stood once more, the only thing communicating his furious embarrassment was the way he glared angrily at Uther's body.
"Well. That was disappointing. The cattle was pouring out enough Light to be a Naaru but was clearly not as formidable as one," the demon spoke even as it began to pick at its claws.
"Why did you interfere Tichondrius?! I had everything under control!" replied the prince.
The demon, Tichondrius, scoffed.
"Yes, you looked very in control of the situation as he smacked you about the town square like a child."
Arthas growled as the powers of Frostmourne began to tend to his wounds. It was not as pleasant, kind, or fast as the same healing that Uther had been receiving, but it was enough.
"Well if you looked behind you demon, you'd notice that I had plenty of reinforcements ready," he said flatly.
Tichondrius did so and looked as the undead horde waited quietly for orders. All the other defenders had long since been killed, and thus had simply been waiting on Arthas's command to intervene. The Nathrezim made a thoughtful noise as one of the ghoul's shambled forwards, slime covering a once glimmering silver urn.
Arthas took the urn before glancing at the burning wasteland that was Lordaeron. His gaze caught the urn and he held it silently, a finger tracing along the carvings before stopping at the initials of his father. Then, without any further ado he up-ended it popping the top off. A clump of ashes flowed into his palm which he raised and cast into the air.
He repeated this several times until the urn was empty before turning to meet the cocked head of the demon.
"I want him to see all of what I have done to Lordaeron. My…final gift to him," Arthas said sardonically to the demons amusement.
"Funny. Now then, I shall place the necromancer's remains inside, and we shall move on. You've done well here boy, the Scourge is proving a most effective force."
The demons words circulated in the air for a moment before lodging themselves into Arthas's mind. Deep, down to where a Prince had once been full of his own insecurities that would be seared away by the power of Frostmourne.
"Well?"
Tichondrius stopped from walking back towards the mausoleum where necromancer's remains waited and looked back at the death knight whose eyes were shadowed.
"Yes, 'well'. I congratulated you, boy," the demon was honestly surprised. He'd actually meant it, and that was a hard enough thing to get any demon to admit, much less one of the Nathrezim.
"I've done more than well, demon. Uther said it himself. My father built up the Alliance and made it the mightiest force on this planet over the course of seven decades. It only took me a week, and you call that doing well?" the death knight growled.
"Boy, if you'd seen what my masters had accomplished in a weeks time before, you'd realize that well is an enormous overstatement, " the demon replied, annoyed.
"Oh, oh I'll show you well, demon!"
With that, a halo of dark energies erupted from Frostmourne and Arthas, greater even than when he had faced Uther. The darkening afternoon skies seemed to drain of color as the wind began to blow of its own accord. Power dripped from Frostmourne, and the death knights lips began to move silently. Unseen to Tichondrius's eyes, a smiling ghost whispered dark words and instructions into the prince's ears. Blue power burned in Arthas's eyes and along Frostmourne. The blade began to vibrate and the ground itself groaned.
Tichondrius curled sulfuric smelling magic and flame to his side as well, wondering if now was when the Prince would attempt to kill him. Then, to his astonishment, the enormous build-up of power was unleashed, not at Tichondrius himself, but to somewhere else entirely.
The body of Uther Lightbringer.
An incredible volume of power lashed out from the tip of Frostmourne, covering the fallen paladin's body. Purple and black light seeped into the armor, and green energies crackled as they poured over the beaten and torn flesh. With several clicks and a pop the neck twisted round again back to it's former position. The body lifted off the ground as the tidal waves of energy flowed inwards, a torrent of power flowing from Frostmourne into the corpse.
Then, with a boom of light that forced Tichondrius to cover his face with one massive hand, it was over.
Kneeling in armor now blackened and twisted to match that of Arthas, was Uther. Blue light blazed in his eyes as a chest heaved in air it no longer needed. The fallen prince wobbled slightly before straightening and marching imperiously over.
"Who do you serve?" Arthas asked in a rasp as he leaned his face in close.
All was silent before Uther spoke again, a magical echo to his voice.
"You, my king."
Index: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Replaced with Threadmarking System
The Order of the Black Heart: Part One
The Fall of Uther Lightbringer
A Warcraft III AU
Across the bridge, flames burned across the villages and forests that the monsters had passed through and in the distance screams could still be heard as the few remaining living in the area were hunted down to be consumed or raised. Massive black greaves with skull decals on the kneecaps clanked as they walked forward over corpses, heedlessly squishing into bodies bloated by death. A veritable mob, over a thousand strong, growled, shambled, and followed behind.
In the center of the camp kneeled a middle aged man corded in muscle, clad in gargantuan plate armor, and wielding an enormous warhammer. Both had once been gleaming and beautiful, but the past hour of combat had turned wondrous silver and gold colors into blood splattered scarlet and brown. Rents ripped into the thorium plates had not been dealt with mighty single blows but had instead been worn in by dozens of ravaging, screaming, leaping ghouls, and the chain mail underneath was worn and torn, though the warhammer itself remained gleaming with a faint holy glow. Along his hip attached to a chain was a massive prayer book, well-worn with care and age.
His name was Uther Lightbringer, one of the greatest paladins to walk Azeroth. He was a war hero several times over, and had crossed hundreds of battlefields. His powers over the Light were unquestionably powerful, and his martial skills were considered to be the best out of the entire order of paladins that he had helped found.
He would be dead soon.
Uther breathed deeply as he wearily stood, leaning on the warhammer for support and cast his eyes around the camp ground, bowing his head at the sight of good men and women buried underneath the enemy, their armored bodies carpeted by foes that had outnumbered them more than twenty to one. They'd given a good accounting of themselves, but at this point it was quite clear how things were going to go. Metal boots rang against cobblestone as he looked up again at some of the last true defenders of Lordaeron.
Gavinrad the Dire and Sage Truthbearer led their men over the land bridge, all in far worse a condition than he. Each had but a handful of soldiers with them, and all were injured. A woman clutched her stomach bandages that already had red soaking through, but still kept pace with a stoic grimace on her face. Another man was carried, his arms hooked over the shoulders of two of his fellows, moaning in pain at the loss of his left leg below the knee. All were bleeding and injured in some manner or another, but still they came.
Both Sage and Gavinrad were mighty paladins of the Order of the Silver Hand, disbanded by the petty rage of a prince in name, but not in purpose or membership. The survivors too injured to stand were carefully placed in a cleared patch of grass, medics frantically working to keep them conscious. He walked forwards carefully over the bodies until he reached them.
"Uther, thank the Light you're still alive," said Gavinrad, a muscled arm slapping the pauldron that was not nearly shorn in two.
"I suppose, though at this point I'm not too confident of that lasting the rest of the afternoon." Uther replied ruefully, even as he cast his gaze to where they had just come.
"I'd ask the situation, but…" Gavinrad trailed off as Sage gave them both a sad smile before heading over to the injured. Prayers and beseechs for healing came from him and out of the corner of their eyes they could see the brilliant glow of the Light envelop him and hear the groans of pain be replaced with groans of relief.
"It's pretty obvious without me answering that, but I'll tell you. All of our camps were assaulted at the same time it seems. I appreciate that you thought to come to mine, but as you can see, they swarmed out of the woods in the darkness before the scouts could say anything, and I am the only one left," Uther stated plainly even though his white knuckled grip on his weapon belied his inner fury.
Gavinrad gave a bone-deep sigh as he nodded.
"The buildings gave us cover, but they hit Sage from behind. He gave a good accounting of himself, but his strengths always leaned towards healing than offense," he said to Uther's nod.
Uther looked out and cocked his head to the left, and closed his eyes. Far off in the distance, black armor creaked. It was coming closer. His eyes opened as he thought of something else.
"Gavinrad, what of Ballador the Bright? He was situated between Sage's camp and yours, was it not?"
The response was foreboding.
"Of him, there was no trace. There were signs of a great struggle, but his camp was aflame, abandoned, and uninhabited by the living or the dead. The village had been emptied as well."
Uther frowned at that even as another part of his heart died at the loss of a good and strong brother. He opened his mouth to speak when an unspeakable foulness intruded upon his senses; the Light seemed to shriek as he whirled, along with Gavinrad, to face the bridge. Behind them they could hear Sage doing the same.
Standing there facing them was death. Clad in a black twisted mockery of their armors, was the agent of the kingdoms doom. A dark hooded cloak cast a shadow over his features. In contrast to their battered and weary forms, the dark black and grey armor was almost…pristine. The only sign that its wearer had faced battle recently was the blood splatters on the fore-arms and greaves.
Behind the figure came a horde of undead clearly screaming for their blood. They stretched back into the village and out again, into the forests beyond where the eye could see. Some shambled, others walked plainly, and still more hung onto doors, rooftops, and walls with bones sharpened into claws as rotten torsos dragged themselves along. They screeched, moaned, and squealed, a cacophony of horror reaching the smoke filled skies.
At a single gesture, an arm raised to the side, and the undead quieted as an orchestra before the conductor. With the same arm a hand grabbed the lip of the hood and peeled it back to reveal the smirking grey face of Arthas Menethil, Traitor Prince of Lordaeron and murderer.
"Ah, Uther! Such a surprise to see you, what brings you out here on this fine day?" he said blandly, as if the two had simply met on a walk in the woods out of sheer chance. As if he had not slaughtered his way into and out of the Capital and across the kingdom sparing no man, woman or child.
Gavinrad snarled and made to advance with his warhammer raised threateningly but was halted by a hand on his arm from Uther, who shook his head.
"Why Arthas? All of this, and that question even now burns at my soul. Why? Your father ruled this land for seventy years, and in a matter of days you've managed to ground it to dust!" his voice had steadily raised until by 'dust' it had become a shout.
"Very…dramatic, Uther. I've been told you have a very special urn in your possession by my master. I've come to take it," Arthas said while slowly unsheathing the cursed blade at his side. Frost spontaneously began to propagate from the sword and drifted down to the ground where ice began to creep over the earth. Unholy light began to glow in the eyes of the undead behind him.
"That urn holds the King's ashes, betrayer! What, did you come here to piss on your father one last time before leaving the kingdom to rot!?!" Gavinrad roared as he broke free of Uther's grasp.
Arthas laughed, a deep and raspy thing, before twitching a finger and unleashing thirty of the ghouls accompanying him. They loped out of the crowd and fell upon the paladin in a wave of necrotic fury.
Gavinrad the Dire was one of the founding members of the Silver Hand. Of those founders, he was more muscular than Uther, taller than Tirion and Turalyon, and had a temper that outshone Saidan. Divine light shone around his body and his warhammer crackled with the power as it crushed ghoul corpses and whipped back and forth like wind in a storm.
He lasted forty seconds before the tide overwhelmed him.
Arthas raised his chin and the ghouls stopped as if frozen in time before retreating back into the roiling mass of flesh and bone behind him. His arm lifted again and a purple ribbon of magic flew out from his hand to grab Gavinrad, wrenching him up and towards him until the man was suspended in the air before him. Gavinrad, bleeding from over two dozen wounds, one of which had torn open his left check to expose his jaw, gave a deep guttural noise as his only unbroken limb struggled to grasp at Arthas to try and reach his throat. He was off by a three inches.
The death knight gave another laugh and, even as Uther and Sage began to move forward to rescue their comrade, slid his rune covered blade into Gavinrad's chest until it began poking its way out through the other side. Gavinrad the Dire passed from the world with a small sigh escaping his lips before his body was tossed to the ground.
Arthas leaned over him to look before grinning at his blade.
"Frostmourne. It's the name of the blade. So much better than the warhammer you gave me Gavinrad, I'm sure you can appreciate that I required a better weapon than that paltry weapon of the Light, right brother?" he said sardonically as he straightened to look at Uther.
"You have no right to call us that, Arthas. Your betrayal broke the hearts of the people and the Order. Any of us would have given our lives for you, and this is how you repay us?" Sage said angrily.
His healing had finished, and now a good forty men and women, some paladins, some not, stood to give one last defiant stand against the betrayer. They raised their weapons and formed up behind Truthbearer.
"I can call you whatever I like, after all, I am King," Arthas gave a laugh as he said so, raising both of his arms as if to encompass his entire 'kingdom'.
"You are no King of mine, bastard," Sage replied.
"Bastard? Why Sage! I had thought that of all your loyalty to my father that you would have more faith in my mother," Arthas laughed.
"Yes, loyalty. To Terenas, and to Lordaeron. Not to you, murderer," Uther said.
"Truly? You can't find it within your hearts to serve your King?" Arthas finished with a raised eyebrow.
"Never, Prince Arthas," said the paladin, his sentiments echoed by all the living.
At this, Arthas narrowed his eyes and as if in response the undead began to growl.
"Well. I can't very well have dissenters in the ranks, now can I? I ordered the Silver Hand disbanded, and in clear disobedience you refused to do so. Now, under my pathetic father that may have flown, but now I am King, and things are going to be a bit different. For instance, for challenging my rule, you die."
He raised Frostmourne until it pointed at, it felt like, Uther's very heart.
"Horribly."
At that signal, the undead surged forward and around him until the death knight was completely obscured from vision. With a cries of 'For Lordaeron' on their lips, Sage Truthbearer and forty soldiers charged into battle, silver and grey meeting red, green, and black.
Uther raised his warhammer high, and with a prayer on his lips enveloped the entire contingent in holy Light before leaping to battle himself. Villagers he'd known his whole life came to kill him, their eyes blank or filled with unholy power. His armor, damaged as it was, protected him well, even as the Light blasted forth from his body to incinerate dozens of undead and his hammer crushed those stronger ones who remained.
In the background, Uther could hear the twisted laugh of Arthas once more. Strangely, it quieted as another voice, smoky and dark, spoke over the death knight. But then he could spare no more attention on it as shambling out of the crowd came a massive abomination stitched together from over a dozen corpses. Its seams were fresh and to his horror he recognized the head that had been chosen to serve as its own.
Ballador the Bright's head sobbed and slobbered from its place atop the wobbling mountain of flesh as its meaty arms wildly swung massive cleavers and hooks unevenly from five different haphazardly placed limbs. In one, the only arm appearing normally sized, was the twisted paladin's warhammer. Uther was knocked to the ground by the beast but was saved by Sage who leapt upon the beast and set about its skull, crushing Ballador's head and ending the sobbing which Uther knew would haunt him for the next few minutes he would be alive.
Yet, even as he got to his feet he could only watch as Sage was covered in leaping ghouls that latched upon his face before falling off the dead behemoth. The last Uther saw of him was the head of his hammer underneath a growing pile.
Uther turned a dozen advancing skeletons to powder with his hammer before raising it above his head once more unleashing a blast of holy energy across the grounds. The life left a hundred of the undead, so tightly packed as they were, the dark magic's powering their motion burned out of their bodies by the Light.
Another abomination with the head of a Sasquatch shoved multiple ghouls aside in its haste to reach him, arms wielding twisted and spiked chains. In response he raised his warhammer and gave it a half circle turn before launching it towards the abominations center mass. Energy and a halo of the Light poured off of it as it picked up speed before impacting, the resulting explosion of flesh and color knocking many undead off of their feet.
Taking a running start, Uther bashed aside zombies with his gauntlets alone destroying them before leaping and grabbing the hilt of the warhammer by the very end and whirling it about like a sports tool destroying another set of undead before resetting his grip firmly with both hands.
Staring about in a rare split second of peace, his mind went into overdrive as he saw the last few living fighters be overwhelmed. In a small gap between charging zombies, he saw Arthas standing in exactly the same spot, a smirk on his face and the blade clasped with both hands with its point in the ground. His eyes widened however at the sight of the monstrous demonic form standing next to him.
Red armor and wings with dark whorls marked the creature even as its disturbingly humanoid and pale face with a foul grin on made Uther nearly gag in distaste. The Light burned strongest against demons, it always had, and the presence of this one seemed to have the light erupt inside Uther's bones like never before. He knew that he would fall here, but he'd be damned if he went without a fight. His eyes fell on the smirking Arthas, who despite everything seemed to tell that Uther was looking at him. The death knight's grin widened to show his teeth.
Uther charged then, his body blazing with the Light. His warhammer swung out and killed another abomination as he ran, dozens of undead burnt to their frames as the Light suffused Uther's being. Creatures more powerful than the normal rabble of mindless zombies rose from the tide to swipe at him and were destroyed in turn.
The man known as Lightbringer roared, the volume alone enough to shake the stones on the ground. Next to Arthas, the demon stepped back, an eyebrow raised in the death knight's direction. The prince shook his head with a snort and lifted Frostmourne. He rolled his shoulders and head back and forth before walking in a sedate manner towards the rushing paladin. Shadows seemed to darken as he strode forwards and in a mirror to Uther unholy energies grew and swirled about the death knight, a black and green corona of power surrounding him just as one of Light covered Uther.
Finally, the two met, warhammer meeting blade in a titanic clash. The resulting explosion as the two opposed forces met each other on levels both physical and magical destroyed numerous undead and sent a shockwave of pure force echoing outwards. Zombies collapsed and body parts of exploded undead flew everywhere. The demons wings were buffeted and pale lips curled in distaste before the red creature flew up and away to avoid being splattered.
Uther's warhammer seemed to sing in the Light as it continually crashed against the unholy blade that shrieked its own deadly song. Again and again they flew, neither finding purchase in their wielders bodies just yet. The fallen prince's smirk faded slightly as he was actually forced to concentrate on the fight.
When the warhammer cracked against his ribs and sent him flying back, the smirk had been replaced with a blank face even as rage began to grow in the death knights eyes. Arthas burst from the shattered remains of the wall in a great overhead slash that would have cut lesser men and weapons in twain, yet clattered uselessly against the metal shaft of Uther's weapon.
This was why frost claws coated the prince's free hand that sliced across the paladin's belly. Metal cracked and shattered and flesh was torn open. Uther grit his teeth and swung again trying to catch the prince even as he stumbled with one hand placed against the wound. The dark ice burned away at his innards but halted before it could seriously damage his organs as the Light cascaded over him to heal it.
"Feeling tired, Uther?" Arthas grunted, even as he shoved a piece of rib sticking out of his torso back into place.
"Shut up, Arthas," Uther growled back as the Light attempted to heal his injuries.
Then the battle was rejoined.
The fight would last for another hour, each matching all their martial skill and abilities. Uther had been stronger physically and in the Light before Arthas had taken up Frostmourne, but now unholy strength augmented the fallen prince to reach where time and experience had not yet been able to guide him. Slices opened up along Uther, each tearing at his body and soul as the cursed blade attempted to sate its hunger on him. In return, Uther cracked bones and armor.
They circled the town square, Arthas flying into the center fountain at one point, Uther's jaw smashing into the cobblestones at another. Both dealt grievous wounds to one another yet their respective energies either kept them moving when they had no right to as with Arthas or healing as with the paladin.
Finally, Uther lashed out with his warhammer and managed to catch Arthas along the wrist, sending Frostmourne flying yards away. Victory flashed in his eyes even as panic, for the first time, crossed the princes. The Light coming off of Uther seemed to magnify even as the dark energies coming off of Arthas faded. The prince stumbled and fell back, falling over the hooded cloak he had been wearing, and one of his arms raised up as if to catch the blow even though both knew that with Uther behind it all that would be accomplished was a snapped arm to accompany the crushed skull.
Uther's eyes widened, however, when massive clawed hands came about his head on both sides, and twisted his head all the way around until it was behind him. The last thing Uther Lightbringer saw was the smirking pale face of the demon.
Like a torch thrust into water the Light surrounding him disappeared, and his warhammer fell from suddenly limp fingers. The paladin collapsed limply to the earth, his neck snapped like a twig.
A ghoul dragged Frostmourne back into Arthas's grip as he stood once more, the only thing communicating his furious embarrassment was the way he glared angrily at Uther's body.
"Well. That was disappointing. The cattle was pouring out enough Light to be a Naaru but was clearly not as formidable as one," the demon spoke even as it began to pick at its claws.
"Why did you interfere Tichondrius?! I had everything under control!" replied the prince.
The demon, Tichondrius, scoffed.
"Yes, you looked very in control of the situation as he smacked you about the town square like a child."
Arthas growled as the powers of Frostmourne began to tend to his wounds. It was not as pleasant, kind, or fast as the same healing that Uther had been receiving, but it was enough.
"Well if you looked behind you demon, you'd notice that I had plenty of reinforcements ready," he said flatly.
Tichondrius did so and looked as the undead horde waited quietly for orders. All the other defenders had long since been killed, and thus had simply been waiting on Arthas's command to intervene. The Nathrezim made a thoughtful noise as one of the ghoul's shambled forwards, slime covering a once glimmering silver urn.
Arthas took the urn before glancing at the burning wasteland that was Lordaeron. His gaze caught the urn and he held it silently, a finger tracing along the carvings before stopping at the initials of his father. Then, without any further ado he up-ended it popping the top off. A clump of ashes flowed into his palm which he raised and cast into the air.
He repeated this several times until the urn was empty before turning to meet the cocked head of the demon.
"I want him to see all of what I have done to Lordaeron. My…final gift to him," Arthas said sardonically to the demons amusement.
"Funny. Now then, I shall place the necromancer's remains inside, and we shall move on. You've done well here boy, the Scourge is proving a most effective force."
The demons words circulated in the air for a moment before lodging themselves into Arthas's mind. Deep, down to where a Prince had once been full of his own insecurities that would be seared away by the power of Frostmourne.
"Well?"
Tichondrius stopped from walking back towards the mausoleum where necromancer's remains waited and looked back at the death knight whose eyes were shadowed.
"Yes, 'well'. I congratulated you, boy," the demon was honestly surprised. He'd actually meant it, and that was a hard enough thing to get any demon to admit, much less one of the Nathrezim.
"I've done more than well, demon. Uther said it himself. My father built up the Alliance and made it the mightiest force on this planet over the course of seven decades. It only took me a week, and you call that doing well?" the death knight growled.
"Boy, if you'd seen what my masters had accomplished in a weeks time before, you'd realize that well is an enormous overstatement, " the demon replied, annoyed.
"Oh, oh I'll show you well, demon!"
With that, a halo of dark energies erupted from Frostmourne and Arthas, greater even than when he had faced Uther. The darkening afternoon skies seemed to drain of color as the wind began to blow of its own accord. Power dripped from Frostmourne, and the death knights lips began to move silently. Unseen to Tichondrius's eyes, a smiling ghost whispered dark words and instructions into the prince's ears. Blue power burned in Arthas's eyes and along Frostmourne. The blade began to vibrate and the ground itself groaned.
Tichondrius curled sulfuric smelling magic and flame to his side as well, wondering if now was when the Prince would attempt to kill him. Then, to his astonishment, the enormous build-up of power was unleashed, not at Tichondrius himself, but to somewhere else entirely.
The body of Uther Lightbringer.
An incredible volume of power lashed out from the tip of Frostmourne, covering the fallen paladin's body. Purple and black light seeped into the armor, and green energies crackled as they poured over the beaten and torn flesh. With several clicks and a pop the neck twisted round again back to it's former position. The body lifted off the ground as the tidal waves of energy flowed inwards, a torrent of power flowing from Frostmourne into the corpse.
Then, with a boom of light that forced Tichondrius to cover his face with one massive hand, it was over.
Kneeling in armor now blackened and twisted to match that of Arthas, was Uther. Blue light blazed in his eyes as a chest heaved in air it no longer needed. The fallen prince wobbled slightly before straightening and marching imperiously over.
"Who do you serve?" Arthas asked in a rasp as he leaned his face in close.
All was silent before Uther spoke again, a magical echo to his voice.
"You, my king."
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Chapter Two: The Realm Eternal
The Order of the Black Heart: Part Two
The Realm Eternal
A Warcraft III AU
The Realm Eternal
A Warcraft III AU
In a dusty town square of Andorhal, an imposing King spoke to six assembled men, all of whom wore black plate and whose eyes glowed with blue light.
"As the Scourge grows in number, so too has my need for capable generals under my command. Each of you was…passable as leaders of men in life, and in death you shall serve your King in that regard once more. As such, I have let all of you retain your former abilities at command. I expect victory and great things from you, am I understood?" said Arthas Menethil, King of the fallen Lordaeron.
"Yes my King!" responded the six men.
Each had been formidable paladins in life, and each was now a powerful force in undeath. Their holy powers had been twisted and ripped from them, in turn replaced with unholy and necromantic magics. Six blackened warhammers were loosely held in their grips, corrupted and warped by the incredible powers of the cursed blade Frostmourne currently held in Arthas's grip.
The King turned towards the most prominent member of the group, who stood just slightly apart from the others.
"Especially you, Uther. By leading me to the rest of the Silver Hand that had originally escaped me, you have raised my expectations exponentially. Regardless, all of you now are no longer part of that blasted waste of an Order. You are now part of a new force, a group created to serve the Scourge and your king. You are now, all of you, the founding members of the Order of the Black Heart!" Arthas finished with Frostmourne pointed towards the air.
The response was a cheer and pounding of chests by fists. The King gave a cruel smile before turning and walking away, shortly followed by his strongest servants. Out of the corner of his eyes he spied a shimmer but otherwise gave no sign that he knew a spirit walked alongside him.
"Well said. Even in my time in the secluded Kirin Tor I had heard of Halahk the Lifebringer, Dagren the Orcslayer, and Magroth the Defender. Mighty servants for the Lich King indeed," said the specter.
Arthas's grin faded.
"Indeed Kel'Thuzad. Unfortunately there is still plenty of the Silver Hand that are, the remaining founders especially, still resisting the Scourge's rule. Saidan has been gathering men in the wilderness, and Tirion somehow disappeared into thin air," said Arthas as they walked down the path.
"True, but we have done well in killing so many already. But we cannot delay any longer; Tichondrius was impatient before you set about this extermination campaign. Silverpine and Tirisfal are almost completely barren of potential soldiers and we can no longer ward off the dread lord with raising the size of the army. He fears your growing power, not much, but enough of to be wary of you from here on in," Kel'Thuzad replied.
"About that, I already knew that with Frostmourne anything was possible, but why is it that my strength has grown so…quickly?" Arthas said.
"Ah, for that, we must return to the Lich King's origins. When he began, he too struggled. But, as he killed and consumed the souls and minds of lesser beings, he was nourished, and so grew ever stronger. By possessing Frostmourne, you possess a direct conduit to his now god-like mind, and so too grow as he did. By raising Uther and the rest of the Silver Hand of that day, your powers grew in leaps and bounds before Tichondrius's very eyes," Kel'Thuzad said, his spectral eyes glowing in pleasure as he remembered the event of the wondrous powers of necromancy being used by such a powerful figure as Arthas.
"I see…and our armies march for Quel'Thalas so that the Lich King gains another powerful servant in you, is that correct?"
"Indeed. Still, while I have instructed you much in the ways of necromancy, there is more we can-" Kel'Thuzad abruptly cut off and dissipated as the winged Tichondrius plummeted from the sky and slammed into the earth feet first. Fresh blood coated his lips and fangs, but his eyes glowed with fel magic's as the unnaturally taut skin twisted further in anger.
"Is the Scourge finally prepared, boy? A month, a month you've been scouring the woods and towns, and all you have to show for it is another three death knights! We are on a precise schedule death knight, and I will wait no longer!" snarled the demon, his claws clenching and unclenching reflexively.
Arthas merely looked at him before waving his arm at the forests below, Tichondrius's gaze following.
Hundreds of enormous abominations wobbled and giggled in vague formations even as tens of thousands of ghouls and zombies scattered around them. Thin vicious gargoyles and roaring frost wyrms from Northrend coated the skies grey and sickly blue as they flew above the vast army. Horrendous siege weapons dripped liquid plague from bombs and enchanted skulls drove forwards as several battalions of meat wagons rolled along behind while being tended to by the Cult of the Damned. Interspersed with the various human corpses were troll tribes and ogre clans unfortunate to be caught up in the rising tide of death that was the Scourge. The vast majority of human undead were simple villagers, farmers, and civilians who had become ravenous unholy creatures, but also amongst the army of death was the raised military of Lordaeron, once brilliant arms and armors replaced with rot and blood. Zombie murlocs, gnolls, and even basic animals such as wolves and bears ran amongst the army as well, all unified under the rule of the Scourge.
Amongst them all were the new generals of this army, each forming up a group under themselves. The death knights of the Black Heart raised their twisted warhammers high and called out, unholy power infusing the undead around them. The massive army was swollen from a month of corpse collecting and graveyard raiding. More of the Scourge had flown down from Northrend; there were even some floating skeletal creatures Kel'Thuzad had called Obsidian Destroyers floating lazily in the air. The Scourge bellowed for a purpose, and the Lich King's servant in Arthas decided that now was the time to give them one.
"Then we shall wait no longer, dread lord. To Quel'Thalas?" he said as he withdrew his arm and whistled for his steed.
"YES. To Quel'Thalas!" cried out the dread lord finally freed from his boredom. Great red wings expanded and then beat once and the demon was flying through the air.
And so the Scourge began to march, leaving the shattered and rotting corpse of Lordaeron behind them.
"As the Scourge grows in number, so too has my need for capable generals under my command. Each of you was…passable as leaders of men in life, and in death you shall serve your King in that regard once more. As such, I have let all of you retain your former abilities at command. I expect victory and great things from you, am I understood?" said Arthas Menethil, King of the fallen Lordaeron.
"Yes my King!" responded the six men.
Each had been formidable paladins in life, and each was now a powerful force in undeath. Their holy powers had been twisted and ripped from them, in turn replaced with unholy and necromantic magics. Six blackened warhammers were loosely held in their grips, corrupted and warped by the incredible powers of the cursed blade Frostmourne currently held in Arthas's grip.
The King turned towards the most prominent member of the group, who stood just slightly apart from the others.
"Especially you, Uther. By leading me to the rest of the Silver Hand that had originally escaped me, you have raised my expectations exponentially. Regardless, all of you now are no longer part of that blasted waste of an Order. You are now part of a new force, a group created to serve the Scourge and your king. You are now, all of you, the founding members of the Order of the Black Heart!" Arthas finished with Frostmourne pointed towards the air.
The response was a cheer and pounding of chests by fists. The King gave a cruel smile before turning and walking away, shortly followed by his strongest servants. Out of the corner of his eyes he spied a shimmer but otherwise gave no sign that he knew a spirit walked alongside him.
"Well said. Even in my time in the secluded Kirin Tor I had heard of Halahk the Lifebringer, Dagren the Orcslayer, and Magroth the Defender. Mighty servants for the Lich King indeed," said the specter.
Arthas's grin faded.
"Indeed Kel'Thuzad. Unfortunately there is still plenty of the Silver Hand that are, the remaining founders especially, still resisting the Scourge's rule. Saidan has been gathering men in the wilderness, and Tirion somehow disappeared into thin air," said Arthas as they walked down the path.
"True, but we have done well in killing so many already. But we cannot delay any longer; Tichondrius was impatient before you set about this extermination campaign. Silverpine and Tirisfal are almost completely barren of potential soldiers and we can no longer ward off the dread lord with raising the size of the army. He fears your growing power, not much, but enough of to be wary of you from here on in," Kel'Thuzad replied.
"About that, I already knew that with Frostmourne anything was possible, but why is it that my strength has grown so…quickly?" Arthas said.
"Ah, for that, we must return to the Lich King's origins. When he began, he too struggled. But, as he killed and consumed the souls and minds of lesser beings, he was nourished, and so grew ever stronger. By possessing Frostmourne, you possess a direct conduit to his now god-like mind, and so too grow as he did. By raising Uther and the rest of the Silver Hand of that day, your powers grew in leaps and bounds before Tichondrius's very eyes," Kel'Thuzad said, his spectral eyes glowing in pleasure as he remembered the event of the wondrous powers of necromancy being used by such a powerful figure as Arthas.
"I see…and our armies march for Quel'Thalas so that the Lich King gains another powerful servant in you, is that correct?"
"Indeed. Still, while I have instructed you much in the ways of necromancy, there is more we can-" Kel'Thuzad abruptly cut off and dissipated as the winged Tichondrius plummeted from the sky and slammed into the earth feet first. Fresh blood coated his lips and fangs, but his eyes glowed with fel magic's as the unnaturally taut skin twisted further in anger.
"Is the Scourge finally prepared, boy? A month, a month you've been scouring the woods and towns, and all you have to show for it is another three death knights! We are on a precise schedule death knight, and I will wait no longer!" snarled the demon, his claws clenching and unclenching reflexively.
Arthas merely looked at him before waving his arm at the forests below, Tichondrius's gaze following.
Hundreds of enormous abominations wobbled and giggled in vague formations even as tens of thousands of ghouls and zombies scattered around them. Thin vicious gargoyles and roaring frost wyrms from Northrend coated the skies grey and sickly blue as they flew above the vast army. Horrendous siege weapons dripped liquid plague from bombs and enchanted skulls drove forwards as several battalions of meat wagons rolled along behind while being tended to by the Cult of the Damned. Interspersed with the various human corpses were troll tribes and ogre clans unfortunate to be caught up in the rising tide of death that was the Scourge. The vast majority of human undead were simple villagers, farmers, and civilians who had become ravenous unholy creatures, but also amongst the army of death was the raised military of Lordaeron, once brilliant arms and armors replaced with rot and blood. Zombie murlocs, gnolls, and even basic animals such as wolves and bears ran amongst the army as well, all unified under the rule of the Scourge.
Amongst them all were the new generals of this army, each forming up a group under themselves. The death knights of the Black Heart raised their twisted warhammers high and called out, unholy power infusing the undead around them. The massive army was swollen from a month of corpse collecting and graveyard raiding. More of the Scourge had flown down from Northrend; there were even some floating skeletal creatures Kel'Thuzad had called Obsidian Destroyers floating lazily in the air. The Scourge bellowed for a purpose, and the Lich King's servant in Arthas decided that now was the time to give them one.
"Then we shall wait no longer, dread lord. To Quel'Thalas?" he said as he withdrew his arm and whistled for his steed.
"YES. To Quel'Thalas!" cried out the dread lord finally freed from his boredom. Great red wings expanded and then beat once and the demon was flying through the air.
And so the Scourge began to march, leaving the shattered and rotting corpse of Lordaeron behind them.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
One Month and Two Weeks Later
"Damn you monsters! What does it take to drive you back!?!" cried the woman even as she loosed another set of enchanted arrows.
They flew true, as always, and impacted into the magical core of the frost wyrm. In an explosion of anti-magic, the unholy heart of the beast guttered and went out, the giant pile of necrotic flesh and bones collapsing to the earth. On impact it crushed an entire platoon of Scourge zombies but her eyes could see that the crushed wretches still wriggled to crawl forwards.
The undead had crashed into Quel'Thalas like a tidal wave upon a small island, swamping it entirely. Despite the assurances of King Sunstrider, even the arrogance of the elves at being what they believed to be the superior race of Azeroth had begun to falter as their Ranger-General was continually pushed back. Oh, Sylvanas Windrunner gave as good as she got, and the Scourge had to fight for every blood soaked inch but damned if they weren't still taking those inches with gusto.
For every individual Scourge creature killed, another four appeared in its place, and if you did not thoroughly destroy the body the one you killed might just stand up again when you weren't looking at the hands of the Scourge's necromancers. The first elf-gate had nearly fallen in a day before anyone even knew what was happening, and Sylvanas had just barely managed to curb the second gate's fall by a few weeks. What was infuriating as well was that all those left behind the first gate had fallen without warning and had been subsequently raised later by the Scourge.
Sylvanas felt her lips curl as she thought of those who had been raising good elves to serve as cannon fodder. The majority was the necromancers with their bone helms, but there were a specific cadre of Scourge generals that despite Sylvanas's best efforts had remained standing, commanding, and slaughtering all the High Elves they could lay their hands on. The Order of the Black Heart, they were called, and each was as merciless as their precious commander Arthas.
Oh yes, Sylvanas had fought Arthas. Had come close to killing him as well multiple times, but in over a dozen close fights between the two of them he had always just barely scraped out a victory forcing her to retreat with just a few less soldiers. Another arrow absentmindedly found its way lodged in the eye socket of a necromancer as he attempted to revive the frost wyrm, but others were coming to the fore now.
"Sylvanas! Surrender now girl and I promise you a quick death!" called out the enemy and even as she sent a flurry of arrows his way they were deflected by a dark shield of energy.
"Shut up and die Uther! You bastards may have gotten past the first elf-gate but you will not get past the second!" she snarled back.
Then the screaming started that tore at her sanity and soul. Rising up from the ranks of the flesh-bound Scourge was the Banshee's, ghosts risen from the dead women of her people. They unleashed great sonic blasts that turned struck soldiers innards to liquefying and then as some of them got close, they dived inwards. Despite various captains shouting to pull back until the Banshee wave could be dissipated, some of the ghostly creatures got close enough to those who had been slow.
With a great swirl of force and a shout of alarm that was strangled half-way through, possessed soldiers turned on their comrades of centuries and began to hack and necks and bodies before being put down. This happened up and down the ranks, and Sylvanas held her eyes shut even as she mentally tallied those that had been lost and added them to an ever growing casualty list.
It was simply impossible to face these foes and win. Perhaps, if it had just been Arthas alone leading that massive horde, Sylvanas may have been able to defeat him. If the Scourge army was smaller. If Arthas was not so unbelievably strong already. If she had had more time or the King and Council had responded to her messages sooner. If, if, if, so many if's that didn't matter anymore.
But it was not just Arthas, the King had not listened soon enough, and the Scourge army was not smaller. It was so large that each of the Black Hearts were in command of an entire assault group themselves, Arthas leading a seventh. Sylvanas simply did not have the ability to command and fight in seven places at once against six skilled and experienced commanders, let alone a seventh driven by Arthas's personal power alone.
Uther Lightbringer, so famous that even the King of Quel'Thalas knew of him, was leading this prong of the Scourge, and had proven the most able of the commanders even above Arthas. Where Arthas would simply flatten those in his way and the Scourge behind him would follow, Uther used flanking maneuvers, pincer assaults, feints, and plenty more that made facing him the hardest fight on the battlefield. It was for that reason that Arthas had commanded he take the elf gate while the erstwhile King of Lordaeron disappeared in front of Sylvanas's scouts.
"Know that I gave you a choice Windrunner! Now, face the might of the Scourge and the glory of Arthas!" shouted Uther.
Raising his warhammer high and speaking twisted black words of power, an enormous column of necromantic power lanced out and re-ignited the fallen frost wyrm, as well as dozens of other such fallen creatures along the line.
The ranger's eyes widened even as soldiers frantically tried to re-deploy to face the new threat and the revived flight of undead dragons let loose enormous blasts of frost and ice. Defensive towers were turned to splinters and ballistae were overturned as the earth was torn to shreds. Some of the revived wyrms fell once more, but over a dozen remained on this single section of the wall alone.
But the High Elves were not yet done. Magisters, High Elf mages that had studied for centuries, some for more than a thousand years, rained fire and death upon the enemy. A bolt of lightning the size of an oak tree smashed and cracked a frost wyrm in half, as a rain of scorching flames cascaded down onto the Scourge below burning many undead creatures to their skeletal frames before falling over. Some even used ice magic themselves against the more fleshy abominations, freezing and breaking apart their great bodies.
But the High Elves were not yet done. Remaining ballistae let loose enchanted explosive bolts among the enemy, and Sylvanas gave a cheer that was quickly echoed by her soldiers when one of the bolts bowled over Uther. That wouldn't kill him, Sylvanas knew that by now, but it was still gratifying to see. A great arcing ball of plasma came over the battlements to land on a contingent of Scourge necromancers, and then a blast of pure arcane energy crashed into one of the floating Scourge necropolises. The powerful spirit crystal held aloft by the flying building was smashed apart, and the necropolis collapsed to the earth like a falling giant.
High Elf priests utilized their powers in the Light to heal wounded soldiers and unleash blistering salvoes that permanently removed necromantic energies, even as fresh Farstriders and Magisters stepped to the fore-front. Grand Magister Belo'vir came to Sylvanas then, sweat, blood, and bile covering his once pristine robes and favoring his left leg.
"Ranger-General," he panted even as one outstretched hand released a massive fireball that exploded below.
"Grand Magister," replied Sylvanas as she let loose another set of anti-magic arrows to 'kill' a frost wyrm attacking a tower.
"Ranger-General Windrunner, I bring reinforcements from Silvermoon," he managed to say with some pride despite his obvious exhaustion.
High above, several flights of dragonhawk riders flew into battle. For the first time in a week the skies oversaturation of grey and blue creatures was challenged by red, blue, and gold.
Giving a weary nod, Sylvanas paused as she processed the greetings that the Grand Magister had used for the first time.
"Don't call me Ranger-General when it was by your counsel that I was stripped of my position as such!!" She growled angrily.
"It seems," he gasped for breath, "that you were not exaggerating at all. The King was wrong to mistrust the you after you moved the Moon Key. I have been informed to tell you that he and the rest of the Council regret their decision to pull you from your position and promote Lor'themar in your place."
"I told you, all of you what would happen as soon as Arthas 'finished up' his homeland. I warned you all that the Scourge would clearly not be satisfied with just Lordaeron," she bit off, pausing a moment to re-direct a group of new priests to the wounded.
"And then, when I see what the Scourge are going to do, prepare our defenses, and pull back the Key to protect our people, for my efforts I am recalled from the defenses, verbally slandered for failing to defeat a foe that outnumbers us twenty to one, and sent back as a mere captain underneath Lor'themar!" she shrieked, her knuckles white around her bow.
"Your tactics were new and untried! It worried everyone how you so strongly deviated from known battle plans. Using goblin made vehicles and explosives, abandoning dozens of sacred sites and villages, destroying thousand year old bridges, pulling the Moon Key from its hiding place…the King has ruled for over three thousand years, you'll have to forgive that he might be stuck in his ways a little and astonished at your tactics!" protested Belo'vir.
"Yes, his 'ways', oh the elves need not concern themselves with this, the elves need not concern themselves with that, well we've seen so well how that thought process has worked out haven't we Belo'vir?!" she shouted as she turned towards him.
"Please, Sylvanas, I know that I could have been more…diplomatic when I first arrived to observe," at that Sylvanas gave a very unwomanly snort, "but I am firmly behind you in this now!"
The former Ranger-General strode forward until she could grab the Grand Magister by his lapels.
"Thank you so much Belo'vir, I'll be sure to tell that to dead citizens of a full third of Quel'Thalas! Oh, don't worry, the Grand Magister is behind me now in defending the homeland, does that make you feel better dead ones? Do you even comprehend what that means, Grand Magister?! A full third of our people, dead! Gone. Forever!" she shouted into his face.
"But no, you and the King firmly believed that since Arthas was a human prince that he would go after Kul Tiras, or break down the wall to Gilneas, or head south to Alterac and Arathi, because those are human kingdoms. You idiots seem to have forgotten that of all the most valuable places on the continent, what none of those places have that we do! Hell, Arthas told us flat-out, 'I'm coming for the Sunwell, you may move, or you may die, it makes no difference to me'," she snarled into the mages face.
A roar of rage reached her ears and she released the weary Grand Magister. Returning to the walls her eyes narrowed as a massive…creature began to approach the walls. It looked like an abomination, those horrible stitched together creatures that had become more and more standardized in form, except preposterously bigger. It's head was a horrific crushed together thing made from dozens of heads, and hundreds of eyes made up great collections in each 'eye socket'.
Sylvanas began to call out for siege weapons and magisters to attack the thing before it got to close as it picked up a fallen frost wyrm in one great meaty paw and tossed it at a band of soldiers.
"You've been out here for about two hours, Grand Magister, and for the first fifteen minutes you were uselessly babbling about reports. Either help to defend Quel'Thalas, go talk to Lor'themar as he commands the overall defenses, even go running back to Silvermoon, but stop distracting me!" she grunted.
Sylvanas Windrunner was not a powerful magister; her talents had never been aimed towards plumbing the magical depths of the world. But she was a High Elf, and still had plenty of innate magic of her own. Twirling an arrow in one hand, the arrow-head began to glow a bright cherry red that soon began to grow in intensity. Nocking it, her eyes narrowed as she calculated the wind in an instant.
The arrow flew outwards as the behemoth bounded forwards for the walls of the second-elf gate, and impacted along the left side of its skull where it detonated in a massive explosion that left a quarter of the things head remaining. Stumbling and gurgling, it fell backwards and crushed an incredible number of Scourge, before wailing erupted from it's now open throat as it began to stand up again.
"Well, at least I can hurt it. Do you see, Magister, why I had the Moon Key taken behind our lines? For all of the protests about Ley-Line connections and static fortifications, all three of the key vaults fell five days ago. You and the King sacked me for going outside of three thousand years of tradition, but that's the only damn reason the inner elf-gate has remained standing thus far!"
It was true, each of the key pieces was attuned to a specific ley line, and through them they powered the gates magical defenses indefinitely. Removed from those places, the defenses would began to discharge, but that would take time, rather than the sudden shutdown that would have occurred if the key was assembled and used on the gate by the enemy. The only way for the great shield Ban'dinoriel to continue without the constant ley line empowerment by the moon crystals was a replacement in constant Magister charging.
Magisters in numbers they no longer possessed.
Belo'vir turned to her with conflict evident on his face, though he too cast out a few more spells amongst the Scourge.
"If we had begun preparing defenses earlier-" but then the magister was cut off as another set of cherry red tipped arrows found their way into the behemoths body, blasting and incinerating massive chunks eliciting a roar of pain.
He began to speak again when he was interrupted by the sounds of a quiet sigh.
"Sorry? You don't get it do you, Belo'vir. Taking the key was a temporary stopgap measure. Every moment the Scourge's smashes its own magic against the elf gate, every moment the defenses weaken. They would have remained eternal, but I made the tactical decision, to try and help our people last just a little bit longer. It. Is. Not. Enough. Don't even try to lie to me and say that it was worth it. A third of our people dead, the first elf-gate destroyed, and this one won't last much longer. Soon they'll be at the gates of Silvermoon."
Belo'vir stared in astonishment as tears streamed down from the Ranger-Generals' face, cutting twin trenches into the blood, dust, and grime covering it. Though they poured from her eyes without stopping, the rest of her face was just as calm as it had been before, and her voice remained rock steady without a single quaver.
"Even if we had started preparing our defenses the moment it had become apparent what was occurring, it would not have mattered. The Scourge built up its numbers for a full month as it trawled through Silverpine and Tirisfal for bodies, and now outnumbers us so incredibly that my mind can barely encompass it. Graveyards and crypts across the land have been emptied out of dozens of generations of bodies!" she ended in a furious shout, her burning anger making her eyes almost glow like coals.
"I've failed my people in a manner out of my nightmares, because as soon as they're dead, the Scourge will raise them. Our people will not know peace after the Scourge are done unless our very bones and ghosts are ash and dust," she said, her voice filled before with rage.
"That will not happen, of course, and so therein lies the failure. I cannot protect the living, and I surely will not be able to protect the dead," she said while stepping forwards onto the lip of the battlements even as her arms continued to pump out arrows to strike against the enemy.
"Sylvanas?" said Belo'vir questioningly, "What are you doing?"
Her feet carried closer to the edge but her natural reflexes and balance kept her stable. Another exploding arrow found its way into the behemoths knee cap and sent it crashing this time into a group of Scourge siege constructs. Then she looked down and back at the Grand Magister as if just realizing what it appeared that she had been about to do.
"Oh, don't worry Magister. I'll not go out a coward. I'll keep fighting until the end."
There was a groan that shook the battlements that made Belo'vir grow deathly pale as his magical senses were assaulted. Ancient enchantments woven into the stone and wood of the walls gave one last burst, explosions of arcane power destroying thousands of the Scourge. Then they faded, the powerful realm wide magical defenses of the second elf-gate of Quel'Thalas dissipating visibly. A great curtain of shimmering pink light descended before the defenders eyes that sank into the ground and then disappeared.
The Scourge roared in victory.
The High Elves cried out in defeat.
"SYLVANAS!" cried out Uther from the shoulder of another approaching behemoth. He cast his warhammer forwards and a blaze of dark flames erupted outwards to coat a formation of swordsmen. They screamed and flailed as their flesh cooked off of their bones but Uther gave them nothing more than a satisfied glance before moving on.
The creature was struck in the abdomen and snapped in half. Unfortunately it's torso continued to drag itself over the lip of the walls, and the fallen paladin landed lightly on the stones of the battlements just below, almost absentmindedly caving in an attacking High Elf's chest. He strode forward confidently, turning aside all assaults and responding casually with his own.
To Sylvanas, it was horrifying how…dignified the death knight looked. His gaze and motions were imperious, and his gestures and orders rang out as if commanding brave troops rather than hideous mindless undead. His great warhammer was resting along one shoulder even as he advanced, one hand reaching out to a sorcerers throat and crushing it effortlessly.
"Fall back to the trees!" she called out, exhausted formations attempting to melt away in the chaos. Legions of arcane protector golems were unleashed to harry the enemy, and many stayed simply to ensure that their comrades could escape to fight another day.
A half-hearted barrage of arrows whistled towards Uther but bounced off of his unholy shield of energies. He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a fiercely glowing fireball that he waved off. A few cinders smoked in his beard, but he wiped them away, bemused.
"Sylvanas, please. Give up already," Uther called out.
"Never, monster!" called out Belo'vir angrily.
"We won't surrender, Uther," said Sylvanas, even as she sent another frost wyrm crashing to earth.
"Why do you keep trying to outrun the inevitable? Arthas will win, the Scourge will win, and you cannot reasonably expect to stop us, can you?" he honestly sounded puzzled as he looked up at them.
In response Sylvanas stayed silent even as she shook in anger before pulling back with the others, Belo'vir soon opening a portal to take those that made it to the evacuation point to the relative safety of Silvermoon. Uther shrugged as he ascended the battlements, dealing death to the remaining High Elves. Reaching the top, he let the warhammer rest it's head on the ground and leaned on the shaft and sighed.
The fortifications would last a few hours longer by sheer dint of size, but the Scourge had unequivocally won. Even now battering rams slammed themselves against the elf-gate while the army began to re-organize itself while teams of the Cult dragged away corpses to be re-animated.
Uther breathed in the smell of death, smoke, and Scourge before nodding to himself. Then, a twinge in the back of his mind turned him to face the south-east. A mental connection was driven into his mind, and his mind was whirled away from his body.
He came to a stop kneeling alongside the projections of all the other members of the Black Heart.
"My king, what would you have of us?" spoke Uther reverently.
In response, Arthas gave a booming laugh from high above.
"I would have you all look up, and bask in the glory of your king!"
So their eyes rose, and widened.
Far above them, laughing , was Arthas riding on top of a massive undead devilsaur, its flesh rotting and pus freely flowing from the sword wound in its skull that had killed it. It had been grievously injured in life, but in death was stronger than ever despite its ribs being visible under pallid flaps of hide.
Surrounding their spectral progressions and the devilsaur was a plainly gargantuan army of trolls, all of them raised into undeath. Long ropy muscles and loin-cloths marked the majority of them, but a significant number had on welded metal armor and crude axes and spears. Scattered about were the grotesquely muscular dire trolls as well. Wide tusks were chipped and decayed, and bright green skin had turned to a pale greenish purple, but despite it all they were recognizable.
"The Amani…" Uther breathed.
Hordes of raptors chirruped and screeched among the trolls, skull and tiki armors cracked and broken. Their eyes stared up at Arthas, adulation clear in those who still had eyes. Spears clattered against one another as the Amani tribe cheered for its new leader.
"Yes! The Amani, Uther! In but a month I did what all the power of the High Elves could not for over seven thousand years! The great and mighty forest trolls of the Amani have been ground beneath the power of the Scourge. In the time it has taken you to reach the second elf-gate Uther, I killed all of Zul'Aman and all those within! All of them, all the inhabitants of Zul'Aman belong to the Scourge," shouted Arthas, Frostmourne held aloft.
At the sight of the blade that had heralded their doom, the Amani howled guttural cries and cheered.
"The power of Frostmourne is unmatched, and it has consumed the power of the Amani's pathetic primitive gods! The bear and lynx ones were especially difficult, but even they were consumed by my power!" cried Arthas.
Power from the consumed troll loa swelled within Arthas, and before Uther's eyes a dark glow of energy now permanently emanated from the death knights body.
"The entire Amani Empire, such as it was, serves the will of the Scourge now. Their berserkers fight in the Lich Kings name, their wild magic is now mine to command! But I am a kind ruler! In exchange for doing me the favor of simply dying so quickly, I shall grant the heart's desire of the Amani! We march to turn Silvermoon, and the High Elves, to DUST!" Arthas shouted.
Despite their death and mental domination by Frostmourne, Arthas, and the Lich King, the sheer volume and intensity of racial hatred held between the forest trolls and the High Elves held true. It burned its way through the skeins of life and death, and set about like liquid flames in their dead hearts. Bright energies glowed in the trolls eyes as they howled in joy, leapt about in exultation, and screamed.
Deep in the heart of the now fallen Zul'Aman, Arthas Menethil laughed.
Miles away across blackened and blasted battlefields in one of the tall spires of Silvermoon, Sylvanas Windrunner felt a cold chill cross her heart as she prepared to meet with the King of the High Elves to prepare the final defense of Silvermoon, and perhaps save her people as well. Her reports were written up by scribes and she now sat on a stupidly plush cushioned couch. Her bow was propped up on the wall as she quietly hand-crafted more arrows to fill her depleted quiver.
She turned at the sound of boots on marble to see Belo'vir approach, deep bags under his eyes from transporting so many from the lost battle, but her eyes lit up slightly as she spied who accompanied him.
High Priest Vandellor's powers over the Light was unmatched among all the High Elves, and following behind like a particularly vicious puppy was his adopted daughter, Lady Liadrin. He had been guiding the High Elves with the Light for a long time, and stress lines covered his face in greater numbers than they had in years.
"Lady Windrunner. You look exhausted, " he began as Liadrin moved to watch out a window at the horizon. A faint glow of holy energies covered his palms as he waved them over the ranger.
Sylvanas gave a bone-deep sigh as aches and wounds she had forgotten she possessed were healed away. A glass of fresh water was pressed into her hand that she drained completely before placing it aside.
"I've been fighting against the Scourge for a month Vandellor. I have seen the greatest devastation ever wrought onto our people happen on my watch with the knowledge that the worst is yet to come. I've been stripped of my position as Ranger-General, and I literally cannot smell anything but the scent of the rotting and burning corpses of my people. The defense of the inner-gate went on for a week during which I did not sleep and barely drank and ate. The undead do not keep to the sleep schedules of the living. So, yes. I am exhausted," she said even as her head rested against the wall.
"What news, Belo'vir my friend? Shall we expect reinforcements from…anywhere?" Vandellor asked lightly as he continued in his healing work.
Belo'vir leaned heavily on his staff, its once ornate golden and silver decals muddied and blood-covered.
"I…am afraid not. The best of our rituals and spells to try and get messages out continue to fail. The architect of the communications blackout is immensely powerful, for sure. I can offer some information on their identity however," the Grand Magister said.
At this Sylvanas's eyes popped open.
"Do we have a target? If I could reach and strike them down, we could call for Dalaran, we could call for Kael'thas!" Faint hope and excitement colored her tone for the first time since the siege had begun.
It was not to last.
"No, Sylvanas, no target," he sighed as he watched the light go out of the rangers eyes, "all I could discern at great cost to our Scryers was that the one managing to block all magical messages is…demonic in nature."
Liadrin strode over, alarm on her and Vandellor's faces.
"Demons? Here!? Why haven't we seen any in the battles?" Vandellor said in horror.
Sylvanas interrupted as Belo'vir opened his mouth to reply.
"Because it's likely just the one. I did not abandon every village beyond the elf-gates, Vandellor. Some were already empty as I passed," she murmured, dark memories in her eyes.
"The Scourge possess the patronage of a powerful demon, whoever it is, and at this point it's likely so far behind miles of undead that even I couldn't make it," she sighed as her head once again found the wall as her eyes closed.
"What are we to do then, Sylvanas? The King stubbornly refuses to hear any idea of retreating, and the rest of the Magisters believe that the Scourge cannot be as powerful as you have claimed. It- it is as if they are wrought by some madness!" Belo'vir proclaimed.
"It is not madness that grips the King, Grand Magister. It is something that the High Elves have always held dear to our hearts. It is pride, pride in our magic, our city, our land. I suspect that by the end of it that pride will be stripped from us and torn to shreds though," said Sylvanas, her eyes opening to gaze at the ceiling.
"What shall we do then? Fall to despair!? You said to me on the walls that you would never stop fighting to the very end, did you not?" Belo'vir pressed.
Sylvanas blinked before resting her eyes upon him. Her hand drifted to a sheaf of vellum next to her covered top to bottom in hastily scrawled words.
"Belo'vir. You and the rest protested my ways before, shall you do so again?" she said with one elegant eyebrow arched.
The Grand Magister shook his head vigorously.
"I am done complaining and whining Sylvanas, the survival of our people is at stake!" he said.
Sylvanas nodded and the ghost of a smile passed her lips.
"Survival....yes. I have a plan, Belo'vir. You will not like it. No one will. By the end of it I even suspect that you may hate me."
As she spoke the Grand Magister and High Priest of the High Elves came closer.
"But yes, if it works, then some of our people may survive."
"After a fashion."
"Damn you monsters! What does it take to drive you back!?!" cried the woman even as she loosed another set of enchanted arrows.
They flew true, as always, and impacted into the magical core of the frost wyrm. In an explosion of anti-magic, the unholy heart of the beast guttered and went out, the giant pile of necrotic flesh and bones collapsing to the earth. On impact it crushed an entire platoon of Scourge zombies but her eyes could see that the crushed wretches still wriggled to crawl forwards.
The undead had crashed into Quel'Thalas like a tidal wave upon a small island, swamping it entirely. Despite the assurances of King Sunstrider, even the arrogance of the elves at being what they believed to be the superior race of Azeroth had begun to falter as their Ranger-General was continually pushed back. Oh, Sylvanas Windrunner gave as good as she got, and the Scourge had to fight for every blood soaked inch but damned if they weren't still taking those inches with gusto.
For every individual Scourge creature killed, another four appeared in its place, and if you did not thoroughly destroy the body the one you killed might just stand up again when you weren't looking at the hands of the Scourge's necromancers. The first elf-gate had nearly fallen in a day before anyone even knew what was happening, and Sylvanas had just barely managed to curb the second gate's fall by a few weeks. What was infuriating as well was that all those left behind the first gate had fallen without warning and had been subsequently raised later by the Scourge.
Sylvanas felt her lips curl as she thought of those who had been raising good elves to serve as cannon fodder. The majority was the necromancers with their bone helms, but there were a specific cadre of Scourge generals that despite Sylvanas's best efforts had remained standing, commanding, and slaughtering all the High Elves they could lay their hands on. The Order of the Black Heart, they were called, and each was as merciless as their precious commander Arthas.
Oh yes, Sylvanas had fought Arthas. Had come close to killing him as well multiple times, but in over a dozen close fights between the two of them he had always just barely scraped out a victory forcing her to retreat with just a few less soldiers. Another arrow absentmindedly found its way lodged in the eye socket of a necromancer as he attempted to revive the frost wyrm, but others were coming to the fore now.
"Sylvanas! Surrender now girl and I promise you a quick death!" called out the enemy and even as she sent a flurry of arrows his way they were deflected by a dark shield of energy.
"Shut up and die Uther! You bastards may have gotten past the first elf-gate but you will not get past the second!" she snarled back.
Then the screaming started that tore at her sanity and soul. Rising up from the ranks of the flesh-bound Scourge was the Banshee's, ghosts risen from the dead women of her people. They unleashed great sonic blasts that turned struck soldiers innards to liquefying and then as some of them got close, they dived inwards. Despite various captains shouting to pull back until the Banshee wave could be dissipated, some of the ghostly creatures got close enough to those who had been slow.
With a great swirl of force and a shout of alarm that was strangled half-way through, possessed soldiers turned on their comrades of centuries and began to hack and necks and bodies before being put down. This happened up and down the ranks, and Sylvanas held her eyes shut even as she mentally tallied those that had been lost and added them to an ever growing casualty list.
It was simply impossible to face these foes and win. Perhaps, if it had just been Arthas alone leading that massive horde, Sylvanas may have been able to defeat him. If the Scourge army was smaller. If Arthas was not so unbelievably strong already. If she had had more time or the King and Council had responded to her messages sooner. If, if, if, so many if's that didn't matter anymore.
But it was not just Arthas, the King had not listened soon enough, and the Scourge army was not smaller. It was so large that each of the Black Hearts were in command of an entire assault group themselves, Arthas leading a seventh. Sylvanas simply did not have the ability to command and fight in seven places at once against six skilled and experienced commanders, let alone a seventh driven by Arthas's personal power alone.
Uther Lightbringer, so famous that even the King of Quel'Thalas knew of him, was leading this prong of the Scourge, and had proven the most able of the commanders even above Arthas. Where Arthas would simply flatten those in his way and the Scourge behind him would follow, Uther used flanking maneuvers, pincer assaults, feints, and plenty more that made facing him the hardest fight on the battlefield. It was for that reason that Arthas had commanded he take the elf gate while the erstwhile King of Lordaeron disappeared in front of Sylvanas's scouts.
"Know that I gave you a choice Windrunner! Now, face the might of the Scourge and the glory of Arthas!" shouted Uther.
Raising his warhammer high and speaking twisted black words of power, an enormous column of necromantic power lanced out and re-ignited the fallen frost wyrm, as well as dozens of other such fallen creatures along the line.
The ranger's eyes widened even as soldiers frantically tried to re-deploy to face the new threat and the revived flight of undead dragons let loose enormous blasts of frost and ice. Defensive towers were turned to splinters and ballistae were overturned as the earth was torn to shreds. Some of the revived wyrms fell once more, but over a dozen remained on this single section of the wall alone.
But the High Elves were not yet done. Magisters, High Elf mages that had studied for centuries, some for more than a thousand years, rained fire and death upon the enemy. A bolt of lightning the size of an oak tree smashed and cracked a frost wyrm in half, as a rain of scorching flames cascaded down onto the Scourge below burning many undead creatures to their skeletal frames before falling over. Some even used ice magic themselves against the more fleshy abominations, freezing and breaking apart their great bodies.
But the High Elves were not yet done. Remaining ballistae let loose enchanted explosive bolts among the enemy, and Sylvanas gave a cheer that was quickly echoed by her soldiers when one of the bolts bowled over Uther. That wouldn't kill him, Sylvanas knew that by now, but it was still gratifying to see. A great arcing ball of plasma came over the battlements to land on a contingent of Scourge necromancers, and then a blast of pure arcane energy crashed into one of the floating Scourge necropolises. The powerful spirit crystal held aloft by the flying building was smashed apart, and the necropolis collapsed to the earth like a falling giant.
High Elf priests utilized their powers in the Light to heal wounded soldiers and unleash blistering salvoes that permanently removed necromantic energies, even as fresh Farstriders and Magisters stepped to the fore-front. Grand Magister Belo'vir came to Sylvanas then, sweat, blood, and bile covering his once pristine robes and favoring his left leg.
"Ranger-General," he panted even as one outstretched hand released a massive fireball that exploded below.
"Grand Magister," replied Sylvanas as she let loose another set of anti-magic arrows to 'kill' a frost wyrm attacking a tower.
"Ranger-General Windrunner, I bring reinforcements from Silvermoon," he managed to say with some pride despite his obvious exhaustion.
High above, several flights of dragonhawk riders flew into battle. For the first time in a week the skies oversaturation of grey and blue creatures was challenged by red, blue, and gold.
Giving a weary nod, Sylvanas paused as she processed the greetings that the Grand Magister had used for the first time.
"Don't call me Ranger-General when it was by your counsel that I was stripped of my position as such!!" She growled angrily.
"It seems," he gasped for breath, "that you were not exaggerating at all. The King was wrong to mistrust the you after you moved the Moon Key. I have been informed to tell you that he and the rest of the Council regret their decision to pull you from your position and promote Lor'themar in your place."
"I told you, all of you what would happen as soon as Arthas 'finished up' his homeland. I warned you all that the Scourge would clearly not be satisfied with just Lordaeron," she bit off, pausing a moment to re-direct a group of new priests to the wounded.
"And then, when I see what the Scourge are going to do, prepare our defenses, and pull back the Key to protect our people, for my efforts I am recalled from the defenses, verbally slandered for failing to defeat a foe that outnumbers us twenty to one, and sent back as a mere captain underneath Lor'themar!" she shrieked, her knuckles white around her bow.
"Your tactics were new and untried! It worried everyone how you so strongly deviated from known battle plans. Using goblin made vehicles and explosives, abandoning dozens of sacred sites and villages, destroying thousand year old bridges, pulling the Moon Key from its hiding place…the King has ruled for over three thousand years, you'll have to forgive that he might be stuck in his ways a little and astonished at your tactics!" protested Belo'vir.
"Yes, his 'ways', oh the elves need not concern themselves with this, the elves need not concern themselves with that, well we've seen so well how that thought process has worked out haven't we Belo'vir?!" she shouted as she turned towards him.
"Please, Sylvanas, I know that I could have been more…diplomatic when I first arrived to observe," at that Sylvanas gave a very unwomanly snort, "but I am firmly behind you in this now!"
The former Ranger-General strode forward until she could grab the Grand Magister by his lapels.
"Thank you so much Belo'vir, I'll be sure to tell that to dead citizens of a full third of Quel'Thalas! Oh, don't worry, the Grand Magister is behind me now in defending the homeland, does that make you feel better dead ones? Do you even comprehend what that means, Grand Magister?! A full third of our people, dead! Gone. Forever!" she shouted into his face.
"But no, you and the King firmly believed that since Arthas was a human prince that he would go after Kul Tiras, or break down the wall to Gilneas, or head south to Alterac and Arathi, because those are human kingdoms. You idiots seem to have forgotten that of all the most valuable places on the continent, what none of those places have that we do! Hell, Arthas told us flat-out, 'I'm coming for the Sunwell, you may move, or you may die, it makes no difference to me'," she snarled into the mages face.
A roar of rage reached her ears and she released the weary Grand Magister. Returning to the walls her eyes narrowed as a massive…creature began to approach the walls. It looked like an abomination, those horrible stitched together creatures that had become more and more standardized in form, except preposterously bigger. It's head was a horrific crushed together thing made from dozens of heads, and hundreds of eyes made up great collections in each 'eye socket'.
Sylvanas began to call out for siege weapons and magisters to attack the thing before it got to close as it picked up a fallen frost wyrm in one great meaty paw and tossed it at a band of soldiers.
"You've been out here for about two hours, Grand Magister, and for the first fifteen minutes you were uselessly babbling about reports. Either help to defend Quel'Thalas, go talk to Lor'themar as he commands the overall defenses, even go running back to Silvermoon, but stop distracting me!" she grunted.
Sylvanas Windrunner was not a powerful magister; her talents had never been aimed towards plumbing the magical depths of the world. But she was a High Elf, and still had plenty of innate magic of her own. Twirling an arrow in one hand, the arrow-head began to glow a bright cherry red that soon began to grow in intensity. Nocking it, her eyes narrowed as she calculated the wind in an instant.
The arrow flew outwards as the behemoth bounded forwards for the walls of the second-elf gate, and impacted along the left side of its skull where it detonated in a massive explosion that left a quarter of the things head remaining. Stumbling and gurgling, it fell backwards and crushed an incredible number of Scourge, before wailing erupted from it's now open throat as it began to stand up again.
"Well, at least I can hurt it. Do you see, Magister, why I had the Moon Key taken behind our lines? For all of the protests about Ley-Line connections and static fortifications, all three of the key vaults fell five days ago. You and the King sacked me for going outside of three thousand years of tradition, but that's the only damn reason the inner elf-gate has remained standing thus far!"
It was true, each of the key pieces was attuned to a specific ley line, and through them they powered the gates magical defenses indefinitely. Removed from those places, the defenses would began to discharge, but that would take time, rather than the sudden shutdown that would have occurred if the key was assembled and used on the gate by the enemy. The only way for the great shield Ban'dinoriel to continue without the constant ley line empowerment by the moon crystals was a replacement in constant Magister charging.
Magisters in numbers they no longer possessed.
Belo'vir turned to her with conflict evident on his face, though he too cast out a few more spells amongst the Scourge.
"If we had begun preparing defenses earlier-" but then the magister was cut off as another set of cherry red tipped arrows found their way into the behemoths body, blasting and incinerating massive chunks eliciting a roar of pain.
He began to speak again when he was interrupted by the sounds of a quiet sigh.
"Sorry? You don't get it do you, Belo'vir. Taking the key was a temporary stopgap measure. Every moment the Scourge's smashes its own magic against the elf gate, every moment the defenses weaken. They would have remained eternal, but I made the tactical decision, to try and help our people last just a little bit longer. It. Is. Not. Enough. Don't even try to lie to me and say that it was worth it. A third of our people dead, the first elf-gate destroyed, and this one won't last much longer. Soon they'll be at the gates of Silvermoon."
Belo'vir stared in astonishment as tears streamed down from the Ranger-Generals' face, cutting twin trenches into the blood, dust, and grime covering it. Though they poured from her eyes without stopping, the rest of her face was just as calm as it had been before, and her voice remained rock steady without a single quaver.
"Even if we had started preparing our defenses the moment it had become apparent what was occurring, it would not have mattered. The Scourge built up its numbers for a full month as it trawled through Silverpine and Tirisfal for bodies, and now outnumbers us so incredibly that my mind can barely encompass it. Graveyards and crypts across the land have been emptied out of dozens of generations of bodies!" she ended in a furious shout, her burning anger making her eyes almost glow like coals.
"I've failed my people in a manner out of my nightmares, because as soon as they're dead, the Scourge will raise them. Our people will not know peace after the Scourge are done unless our very bones and ghosts are ash and dust," she said, her voice filled before with rage.
"That will not happen, of course, and so therein lies the failure. I cannot protect the living, and I surely will not be able to protect the dead," she said while stepping forwards onto the lip of the battlements even as her arms continued to pump out arrows to strike against the enemy.
"Sylvanas?" said Belo'vir questioningly, "What are you doing?"
Her feet carried closer to the edge but her natural reflexes and balance kept her stable. Another exploding arrow found its way into the behemoths knee cap and sent it crashing this time into a group of Scourge siege constructs. Then she looked down and back at the Grand Magister as if just realizing what it appeared that she had been about to do.
"Oh, don't worry Magister. I'll not go out a coward. I'll keep fighting until the end."
There was a groan that shook the battlements that made Belo'vir grow deathly pale as his magical senses were assaulted. Ancient enchantments woven into the stone and wood of the walls gave one last burst, explosions of arcane power destroying thousands of the Scourge. Then they faded, the powerful realm wide magical defenses of the second elf-gate of Quel'Thalas dissipating visibly. A great curtain of shimmering pink light descended before the defenders eyes that sank into the ground and then disappeared.
The Scourge roared in victory.
The High Elves cried out in defeat.
"SYLVANAS!" cried out Uther from the shoulder of another approaching behemoth. He cast his warhammer forwards and a blaze of dark flames erupted outwards to coat a formation of swordsmen. They screamed and flailed as their flesh cooked off of their bones but Uther gave them nothing more than a satisfied glance before moving on.
The creature was struck in the abdomen and snapped in half. Unfortunately it's torso continued to drag itself over the lip of the walls, and the fallen paladin landed lightly on the stones of the battlements just below, almost absentmindedly caving in an attacking High Elf's chest. He strode forward confidently, turning aside all assaults and responding casually with his own.
To Sylvanas, it was horrifying how…dignified the death knight looked. His gaze and motions were imperious, and his gestures and orders rang out as if commanding brave troops rather than hideous mindless undead. His great warhammer was resting along one shoulder even as he advanced, one hand reaching out to a sorcerers throat and crushing it effortlessly.
"Fall back to the trees!" she called out, exhausted formations attempting to melt away in the chaos. Legions of arcane protector golems were unleashed to harry the enemy, and many stayed simply to ensure that their comrades could escape to fight another day.
A half-hearted barrage of arrows whistled towards Uther but bounced off of his unholy shield of energies. He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a fiercely glowing fireball that he waved off. A few cinders smoked in his beard, but he wiped them away, bemused.
"Sylvanas, please. Give up already," Uther called out.
"Never, monster!" called out Belo'vir angrily.
"We won't surrender, Uther," said Sylvanas, even as she sent another frost wyrm crashing to earth.
"Why do you keep trying to outrun the inevitable? Arthas will win, the Scourge will win, and you cannot reasonably expect to stop us, can you?" he honestly sounded puzzled as he looked up at them.
In response Sylvanas stayed silent even as she shook in anger before pulling back with the others, Belo'vir soon opening a portal to take those that made it to the evacuation point to the relative safety of Silvermoon. Uther shrugged as he ascended the battlements, dealing death to the remaining High Elves. Reaching the top, he let the warhammer rest it's head on the ground and leaned on the shaft and sighed.
The fortifications would last a few hours longer by sheer dint of size, but the Scourge had unequivocally won. Even now battering rams slammed themselves against the elf-gate while the army began to re-organize itself while teams of the Cult dragged away corpses to be re-animated.
Uther breathed in the smell of death, smoke, and Scourge before nodding to himself. Then, a twinge in the back of his mind turned him to face the south-east. A mental connection was driven into his mind, and his mind was whirled away from his body.
He came to a stop kneeling alongside the projections of all the other members of the Black Heart.
"My king, what would you have of us?" spoke Uther reverently.
In response, Arthas gave a booming laugh from high above.
"I would have you all look up, and bask in the glory of your king!"
So their eyes rose, and widened.
Far above them, laughing , was Arthas riding on top of a massive undead devilsaur, its flesh rotting and pus freely flowing from the sword wound in its skull that had killed it. It had been grievously injured in life, but in death was stronger than ever despite its ribs being visible under pallid flaps of hide.
Surrounding their spectral progressions and the devilsaur was a plainly gargantuan army of trolls, all of them raised into undeath. Long ropy muscles and loin-cloths marked the majority of them, but a significant number had on welded metal armor and crude axes and spears. Scattered about were the grotesquely muscular dire trolls as well. Wide tusks were chipped and decayed, and bright green skin had turned to a pale greenish purple, but despite it all they were recognizable.
"The Amani…" Uther breathed.
Hordes of raptors chirruped and screeched among the trolls, skull and tiki armors cracked and broken. Their eyes stared up at Arthas, adulation clear in those who still had eyes. Spears clattered against one another as the Amani tribe cheered for its new leader.
"Yes! The Amani, Uther! In but a month I did what all the power of the High Elves could not for over seven thousand years! The great and mighty forest trolls of the Amani have been ground beneath the power of the Scourge. In the time it has taken you to reach the second elf-gate Uther, I killed all of Zul'Aman and all those within! All of them, all the inhabitants of Zul'Aman belong to the Scourge," shouted Arthas, Frostmourne held aloft.
At the sight of the blade that had heralded their doom, the Amani howled guttural cries and cheered.
"The power of Frostmourne is unmatched, and it has consumed the power of the Amani's pathetic primitive gods! The bear and lynx ones were especially difficult, but even they were consumed by my power!" cried Arthas.
Power from the consumed troll loa swelled within Arthas, and before Uther's eyes a dark glow of energy now permanently emanated from the death knights body.
"The entire Amani Empire, such as it was, serves the will of the Scourge now. Their berserkers fight in the Lich Kings name, their wild magic is now mine to command! But I am a kind ruler! In exchange for doing me the favor of simply dying so quickly, I shall grant the heart's desire of the Amani! We march to turn Silvermoon, and the High Elves, to DUST!" Arthas shouted.
Despite their death and mental domination by Frostmourne, Arthas, and the Lich King, the sheer volume and intensity of racial hatred held between the forest trolls and the High Elves held true. It burned its way through the skeins of life and death, and set about like liquid flames in their dead hearts. Bright energies glowed in the trolls eyes as they howled in joy, leapt about in exultation, and screamed.
Deep in the heart of the now fallen Zul'Aman, Arthas Menethil laughed.
Miles away across blackened and blasted battlefields in one of the tall spires of Silvermoon, Sylvanas Windrunner felt a cold chill cross her heart as she prepared to meet with the King of the High Elves to prepare the final defense of Silvermoon, and perhaps save her people as well. Her reports were written up by scribes and she now sat on a stupidly plush cushioned couch. Her bow was propped up on the wall as she quietly hand-crafted more arrows to fill her depleted quiver.
She turned at the sound of boots on marble to see Belo'vir approach, deep bags under his eyes from transporting so many from the lost battle, but her eyes lit up slightly as she spied who accompanied him.
High Priest Vandellor's powers over the Light was unmatched among all the High Elves, and following behind like a particularly vicious puppy was his adopted daughter, Lady Liadrin. He had been guiding the High Elves with the Light for a long time, and stress lines covered his face in greater numbers than they had in years.
"Lady Windrunner. You look exhausted, " he began as Liadrin moved to watch out a window at the horizon. A faint glow of holy energies covered his palms as he waved them over the ranger.
Sylvanas gave a bone-deep sigh as aches and wounds she had forgotten she possessed were healed away. A glass of fresh water was pressed into her hand that she drained completely before placing it aside.
"I've been fighting against the Scourge for a month Vandellor. I have seen the greatest devastation ever wrought onto our people happen on my watch with the knowledge that the worst is yet to come. I've been stripped of my position as Ranger-General, and I literally cannot smell anything but the scent of the rotting and burning corpses of my people. The defense of the inner-gate went on for a week during which I did not sleep and barely drank and ate. The undead do not keep to the sleep schedules of the living. So, yes. I am exhausted," she said even as her head rested against the wall.
"What news, Belo'vir my friend? Shall we expect reinforcements from…anywhere?" Vandellor asked lightly as he continued in his healing work.
Belo'vir leaned heavily on his staff, its once ornate golden and silver decals muddied and blood-covered.
"I…am afraid not. The best of our rituals and spells to try and get messages out continue to fail. The architect of the communications blackout is immensely powerful, for sure. I can offer some information on their identity however," the Grand Magister said.
At this Sylvanas's eyes popped open.
"Do we have a target? If I could reach and strike them down, we could call for Dalaran, we could call for Kael'thas!" Faint hope and excitement colored her tone for the first time since the siege had begun.
It was not to last.
"No, Sylvanas, no target," he sighed as he watched the light go out of the rangers eyes, "all I could discern at great cost to our Scryers was that the one managing to block all magical messages is…demonic in nature."
Liadrin strode over, alarm on her and Vandellor's faces.
"Demons? Here!? Why haven't we seen any in the battles?" Vandellor said in horror.
Sylvanas interrupted as Belo'vir opened his mouth to reply.
"Because it's likely just the one. I did not abandon every village beyond the elf-gates, Vandellor. Some were already empty as I passed," she murmured, dark memories in her eyes.
"The Scourge possess the patronage of a powerful demon, whoever it is, and at this point it's likely so far behind miles of undead that even I couldn't make it," she sighed as her head once again found the wall as her eyes closed.
"What are we to do then, Sylvanas? The King stubbornly refuses to hear any idea of retreating, and the rest of the Magisters believe that the Scourge cannot be as powerful as you have claimed. It- it is as if they are wrought by some madness!" Belo'vir proclaimed.
"It is not madness that grips the King, Grand Magister. It is something that the High Elves have always held dear to our hearts. It is pride, pride in our magic, our city, our land. I suspect that by the end of it that pride will be stripped from us and torn to shreds though," said Sylvanas, her eyes opening to gaze at the ceiling.
"What shall we do then? Fall to despair!? You said to me on the walls that you would never stop fighting to the very end, did you not?" Belo'vir pressed.
Sylvanas blinked before resting her eyes upon him. Her hand drifted to a sheaf of vellum next to her covered top to bottom in hastily scrawled words.
"Belo'vir. You and the rest protested my ways before, shall you do so again?" she said with one elegant eyebrow arched.
The Grand Magister shook his head vigorously.
"I am done complaining and whining Sylvanas, the survival of our people is at stake!" he said.
Sylvanas nodded and the ghost of a smile passed her lips.
"Survival....yes. I have a plan, Belo'vir. You will not like it. No one will. By the end of it I even suspect that you may hate me."
As she spoke the Grand Magister and High Priest of the High Elves came closer.
"But yes, if it works, then some of our people may survive."
"After a fashion."
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Chapter Three: Ashen Grief
The Order of the Black Heart: Part Three
Ashen Grief
A Warcraft III AU
He was one of the most powerful magi in Azeroth. As a senior member of the Kirin Tor, he had read and written treatises on magic that were respected across the continent. His magical strength was undeniable, and was capable of killing dozens, hundreds of foes in minutes. Power collected about him like an angry thundercloud, and with a murmur he could sunder houses to splinters.Ashen Grief
A Warcraft III AU
Kael'thas Sunstrider was sobbing, his wails of grief echoing in the forlorn wind.
Crimson dyed gloves fruitlessly grasped at mountains of ash, digging and holding small piles that would then blow away before his eyes. His fine enchanted greaves of golden and red were caked with grey that was slowly beginning to coat the glorious cloak that accompanied the Sunstrider. Bloodshot eyes cast about wildly, staring at ash piles three stories high and the gaps in between them.
Few actual ruins met his eyes. The bottom ten feet of an arching stone spire, cracked at the top as if snapped by a god's hand. A ruined silk blue cloth faded and covered with ash, soon covered by whirling piles of dust. A single piece of charred wood from a wagon wheel spoke.
Of the once wondrous city of Silvermoon, these were all that remained. Those few things…and ash. Of the realm of Quel'Thalas, the eternal realm of summer and wonder had been largely replaced with wasteland.
There was a crash in the distance, the sound of cracking earth. The prince's eyes darted about, even as he desperately tried to hold the ashes of his home. There were no survivors. No bodies, not even a finger bone. The very streets themselves had been stripped down to the dirt beneath, cobblestones and marble walkways disappeared into oblivion.
He rose, and staggered drunkenly through the desert of ash, dirt, and dust. A massive gust of wind pushed a pile just as he opened his mouth, filling his mouth and nose. Coughing and spitting, Kael'thas fell to his knees as he hacked, wiping at his eyes furiously and only managing to accomplish spreading the ash on his fair skin about further.
It took ten minutes until he managed to stand again, and began his trek one more. In seconds the marks his boots left in the ash was covered once more, and then he stopped. He had wandered this ash desert for what felt like years, and now, finally managing to process it somewhat, realized that he had no idea where he was. There were no street signs, and despite spending over a century here in his youth all his memories were useless now. There were no landmarks, and each ash dune only lasted until the wind decided otherwise.
More than once, he saw mirages. Towers that were not broken, a shop with its wares still precisely assembled on racks.
Once, he thought he saw his people, and had run after them in a mad dash shouting at them to halt. He had run for an hour before he realized he was going in circles.
He cast out his magical senses once more, as he had done so nearly a dozen times, and immediately closed his mind to them as he had every previous time.
The world was…screaming, and it was only when he cast out beyond the physical that he could hear it. He staggered once more, and absentmindedly grasped for a flask on his hip. Turning to drink, he gagged and spit out more ash that had somehow gotten inside. In the haze that was his mind, he remembered that he had run out of water hours ago. Or was it days ago?
He felt so drained. Lethargy marked his every step, and the deep bags under his eyes felt heavier than stones. The very blood in his veins flowed sluggishly, his innards felt like sludge. He raised his arm to try and cast a refreshment spell, but the sparks fizzled and spots filled his vision as the failed spell exhausted him even further.
Finally, he realized that he was drifting closer and closer towards the north. His eyes looked down to his grime covered legs, and then narrowed.
The dust and ash was moving. Not quickly, but it was ever so slightly pulling towards the north. Its advance was inexorable, if slow. He leaned down once more and grabs another clump of ash and held it up to eye level. The wind still blew, but not too strongly between the dunes where Kael'thas stood. Before his very eyes the ash drifted against the faint wind, slowly heading forwards.
With no other recourse, the Prince followed. He tracked staggered off, every now and then slipping and falling, each creating a new poof of disturbed particulates. His arm held itself to guard his eyes only, having given up on trying to keep the ash out of his lungs a long time ago.
The sunlight that managed to break through the ash clouds was sickly and faint, but the farther along Kael'thas went, the more the world faded. The smell of charnel death and ash began to abate, the already grey colors of the world draining away to his eyes. Even the dust that coated his mouth became less and less noticeable until he could taste it not at all.
But the effect on his body was even more noticeable. He stumbled once more, and this time, could not rise. The power within him slipped out like water through his fingers, and his blood almost stopped moving. The sounds of the howling wind faded. The sunlight disappeared, yet a semblance of shades still filled the world. Kael'thas could smell nothing, hear taste nothing, feel nothing. His vision began to darken even as he looked down at his fingers to make sure that they were still there. Finger and thumb pressed together, yet he felt nothing. It went beyond numbness, to a void of perception.
Stubbornly, he continued on. Why, he did not know, but even as he realized he was dying, he continued forwards. Both legs collapsed, but his arms dragged him forwards on pure will-power. His mind catalogued that the world seemed to slope downwards more and more sharply, until he realized that the entire section of the land was horrendously cracked and dipping. He reached a lip where the drop-off became too steep for him to continue.
Like a bubble popping, he blinked, saw, and gasped.
It was gone.
It was gone.
The Sunwell, the wondrous life-giving font of power, the crown jewel of the High Elves, was gone!
No, more than that. The entire island of Quel'Danas was gone!
"Wh-wh…no!" he croaked out weakly, the effort of saying such nearly causing him to pass out.
In its place were the remnants of a massive crater. His eyes widened as he realized that no, the crater was not just there, but had actually ripped forward so greatly as to consume the northern third of his home city and the land beneath!
It was here that the ash was flowing, pulled by some unknown force to fill the craters once empty body. The earth was wrenched and spiked upwards, providing a natural barrier from the ocean and connecting what remained of the Sunwell Island and the mainland. Instead of water it was filled with the ashes of Silvermoon. Such was the volume of ash created from the obliterated home of the High Elves, the crater itself would be filled in a month.
"No…" Kael croaked once more before collapsing.
Grief, held back with the barest of threads, was unleashed. The willpower that had dragged him here sputtered and died under a deluge of horror and pain that could be ignored no longer.
As he was unconscious and nearly dead, he did not notice as a score of slender ash covered arms lifted him up and away from the swirling ash whirlpool that shifted in the Crater.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
Several Miles Away, in the Mountains of Alterac
Uther drew ragged breaths into the shattered ruin of his body. The snow swirled about them, but the death knight refused to surrender to the elements. He remained propped up reading reports held by his only functional hand. He was healing, slowly, but could not move until his ribs were finished. Every bone had broken, and it was only now, weeks later, that he was able to be functional at the behest of the best magic that was at the Scourge's disposal. His black thorium plated armor had been utterly ruined, and was now only just barely half-repaired.The wagon creaked terribly and the ragged cloth was a paltry barrier, but it functioned for now. The undead horses pulling it would never tire, and Uther used the blade to peel back a flap to survey the remnants of their forces.
It was a disheartening sight for the loyal servant of the King.
No abominations were present, and only one flight of frost wyrms flew through the sky slowly. There were no siege weapons, stone, wood, or otherwise. The single dozen members of the Cult in the group marched limply and wearily, many choosing to follow in Uther's example and ride along in the hastily grabbed wagons. A few ghouls loped past, but the vast majority of the remaining forces were some of the weakest possible. A battalion of skeletal warriors surrounded them, none of them the more empowered kinds. None of the more powerful scourge soldiers were present; all destroyed in the final push of…earlier.
The sound of galloping hooves sounded in his ears, and Uther gave a sigh of relief when he saw the form of Dagren riding along his undead charger. That relief quickly faded at the frown on his fellow Black Heart's face.
Like Uther, the rest of the Order of the Black Heart had survived, save for Halahk. All were in horrendous condition, but Dagren had been the least injured and after the administrations of Sage he had gone out to scout as he was one of the few possessing his enchanted warhammer.
Uther grimaced internally as he thought of that valuable lost weapon. It had been abandoned in the chaos, and likely destroyed. He answered Dagren's questioning look with a shaking head, but he shared in the Orcslayers pain at the thought of the unspoken topic.
"It's bad news Uther. There's another ruling force in these mountains. It's our old foe, from the Second War," Dagren said with distaste.
Uther's eyes widened.
"The Horde is here?" he asked, gripping his weapon tighter.
"No, no the true Horde stole a third of the Lordaeron armada, remember? They went…elsewhere. This is a group that refused the call of that new Warchief, Thrall. It's the Blackrock, Uther. The Blackrock Clan is in these mountains."
Uther nodded, his mind already drifting back to those first conflicts, to battles of lava and death fought in the shadow of the Blackrock Mountain.
"So it's a splinter group, eh?"
Dagren shrugged.
"Who knows? Regardless, they are blocking our way, and I highly doubt that they'll give up without a fight. We don't have any warriors besides the rest of the Black Hearts who can match them at the moment, and the worst part is this: they hold some dragons with them still.
"What!?" Uther hissed, his body twisting to give him a better angle.
"I speak the truth, Uther," Dagren said grimly, "They have a brood of Reds with them. About three flights worth, and they look to be in top condition in comparison to our battered frost wyrms."
Uther growled.
"This will not stand. What shall we do, Dagren?"
The Orcslayer then gave a cruel grin.
"We still possess numerous Banshees' do we not, corralled within our remaining Spirit Crystals?"
Uther pondered before nodding with a grin of his own.
"I like it. The Scourge requires a new army, and the savage orcs and some dragons will provide some ideal candidates."
The howling winds of Alterac were soon joined by an undercurrent of ghostly wails.
A trotting of hooves heralded the arrival of Gavinrad, leading behind him a sizable contingent of ghouls. It in fact dwarfed Uther's company. The death knight greeted them with a pleased smirk on his face.
"There were a few graveyards that we missed in our haste, brothers, I give you the past seven generations of Darrowshire," he said while waving the undead into the formation.
Uther slapped him on the pauldron a fierce smile on his face.
"Excellent! The rest of the Black Hearts should be returning shortly, and the Scourge should have reasonably rebuilt numbers. We shall take Alterac, scour it of life, and then descend into Hillsbrad to strengthen our army further before we move on," Uther stated.
The smiles on his fellow death knights faces faded then, and he knew what plagued their thoughts. All three of them turned to face a luxurious black marble wagon being pulled along by the finest undead stallions. Made of shimmering black stone and liberally coated in protective runes and metal plates, the moving mausoleum shimmered with power.
"The King…" trailed off Gavinrad who looked towards Uther.
"No, my brothers. The King still rests, but he is not yet dead. He is so terribly wounded that I dare not open the healing chamber until he is restored. Blessed Frostmourne works upon his body as we speak, but I know not when he shall be fully healed."
All three men sighed, and cast their eyes down in respect as the mausoleum moved past. They could hear the furious whispers of Frostmourne even through its layers of protections as if the weapon itself was gripped by rage at what had been done to its wielder.
"We will guard him until he wakes once more, and then we shall follow him as he continues the Lich Kings work, understood?"
His subordinates nodded, and Uther set about resting once more, eager to have his body healed as quickly as possible so that he could serve. Dagren kicked his charger off into the snow, ready to show the Blackrock why he was given the title Orcslayer.
Uther's gaze found the Mausoleum once more, and then back into the wagon. Though his warhammer had been lost, he appreciated the new weapon that gleamed in the darkness.
It was called Felo'melorn, and it was the only remnant of the slain King of the High Elves, Anasterian Sunstrider, in existence. The powerful blade hummed in his grip as he turned it back and forth. Suddenly he swung it in the confines of the wagon and a thin strip of flame encircled the blade, illuminating the darkness.
"Now then, Kel'Thuzad, we will have those words you mentioned," he said.
"As you wish, death knight," replied the desiccated corpse of Grand Magister Belo'vir, his head twisted at an odd angle to accompany the broken rotting body that lay at the back of the wagon.
Dark energies illuminated the Grand Magisters body, allowing for speech but unable to motivate the ruined bones and nerve-endings for movement. It was not a full possession, the body was too damaged for that, but it served for the moment.
"What do you wish to know?"
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Chapter Four: A Light in the Darkness
Ok, guess I'll just keep writingRamenth said:
. But yeah, these things will probably see plenty of re-writes over time as I mess with things. Heck, originally I wasn't even gonna have the Sunwell go boom. I'll admit though, I kinda like purple for Warcraft, y'know? Seems appropriate for the setting.Anyway, Interlude Update!
The Order of the Black Heart: Part Four
A Light in the Darkness
A Warcraft III AU
He had walked across hundreds of battlefields. He had slain thousands, but was proud of less than half of those kills. Deep within, he held a secret shame that he dare not tell his dearest and closest friend for fear of breaking their heart. Years ago his body had been failing, only sheer force of will and gristle holding himself together as his muscles began to slacken and fade despite his best efforts before the touch of a shaman revitalized him. He'd lived far longer than his kind was meant to while still possessing the vigor of a middle aged veteran.A Light in the Darkness
A Warcraft III AU
He was Grommash Hellscream, and the fire that had been burning his veins and driving him to near uncontrollable bloodlust for the past three months went out.
Stumbling suddenly, his grip on Gorehowl loosened as he froze. Around him many of the older Warsong did the same. Many stopped and stared at their hands, as if seeing them for the first time. Dazed expressions abounded even as some began to shake out of it. Suddenly, he spied what could be his greatest mistake yet begin to leave the camp.
He was the Chieftain of the Warsong for a reason, one of which was his voice.
"RAIDING PARTY HALT!" he bellowed, several torches blown out by the sheer force.
So violent was said stopping that half of the raiders nearly fell out of their saddles, four of the grunts tripping over themselves. Coughing, they rose from the dust.
"Chieftain?"
Grom shook his head vigorously.
"No, no I was wrong before. The Warchief has ordered us not to touch the humans, and we will follow that order," he said, his voice rough with emotion.
"I, I don't understand. Should we not…should…I-I feel…" the protesting raid leader trailed off.
Grom looked him over and realized that he was young, extremely so. The boy looked like he had just barely passed his second decade.
"Of course, you are unused to it, to the feeling of their kind of bloodlust. Our shamans have been lax!" he yelled disapprovingly back into the camp.
"Chieftain, I don't understand, why do I feel-"
"I will explain all, youngling, but for now get back to the tents. I want the shamans raising our spirits for health and energy while we rest and wait for the Warchief's orders, understood?" he said, even as he began walking out of the camp.
The boy nodded while shaking his head to clear it, and headed back towards the center of the camp followed by the rest of the Warsong. Grom frowned as he walked across the path to the red colors of Thrall's camp. Now, now he knew. Before, it could have been attributed to restlessness, but the cut, the sudden rip of sanity proved that something was coming, something that even Grom's tireless warrior spirit was wary of.
"Thrall! We must speak Little Brother," he called out even as he shoved the beads covering the doorway aside.
Thrall sat naked but for a loin-cloth with his eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading his flesh. Words flew out of his lips in strange and curling tones and languages, and before him a brazier grew and shrank in turn with his breaths. The famous black plate armor was placed on a rack, and the legendary Doomhammer rested lengthwise within arm's reach.
Grom silenced himself immediately, respecting the shamanistic rite that Thrall was obviously going through. He watched quietly as Thrall's face grew agitated, then confused, and finally relaxed. Bright blue eyes revealed themselves to the world then slid over to where Grom stood by the side.
A wide smile broke out on Thrall's face as he sprang up and began to dress.
"Grom! I've got good news! The spirit of fire has shown me to the sight of a recent fire caused by a lightning strike. It has cut a path between the brambles and undergrowth and completely bypasses the human camps! We can- what's wrong?" Thrall's joy faded and immediately gave way to seriousness.
Grom looked at Thrall. So young, so unknowing to the things he'd done. Thrall had pulled the Horde from their dark path, and even standing before the Warchief on the outskirts of the ritual had done wonders to cleanse those last few bursts of corruption that had been lingering in his mind.
"We must speak, Warchief," Grom watched with sorrow as all friendliness evaporated behind Thrall's eyes, replaced with the cold steel of a Warchief.
"Speak Chieftain, and your Warchief shall hear," Thrall said as he rapidly put on his armor.
Grom looked longingly at the doorway before shaking his head. He was never a coward, and he would not start now. Gorehowl was thrown to the floor, clattering at the feet of the Warchief's black armor. Then, to Thrall's astonishment, Grom fell to his knees before him.
"I, Grommash Hellscream, would bring myself to the feet of the Warchief to bring about judgment," Grom said quietly.
The only noises were the far off background of a Horde camp, the flickering of the brazier, and both orcs breathing.
It was an old custom, but Doomhammer and Grom both had instructed Thrall in the ways of the Horde and his people before. To ask the Warchief to bring about judgment was to cast dishonor upon yourself, as it stated plainly that you could not deliver justice on your own. It spoke of weakness of the heart. Furthermore, it was not always asking for the death of another. Sometimes it was used to excise crimes and confessions, and in the end it was up to the Warchief on how to deliver said judgment.
Thralls eyes narrowed. Already his mind cast about. Who would do something in the Horde to force Grom to beg judgment? What crimes could have been committed?
"Speak, Grommash Hellscream, and tell me what crimes that the judgment of Thrall, Son of Durotan, Wielder of the Doomhammer, must fall upon."
Grom did not move.
"Consorting with demons, corrupting our people, massacre of innocents, and genocide," he whispered, the noise sounding more like a bellow in the silent room.
Power glowed off of the Doomhammer, and lightning just about sparked from Thrall's eyes. Fury ignited as the spirits infused his body with their blessings. Wind curled around his muscles to speed them, fire wrapped around them to strengthen, water crested over aches to guard against all pain, and the earth's power gathered underneath his feet.
"WHO has done this?!" his voice rang out, the power of the elements amplifying his voice.
"WHAT PATHETIC CREATURE HAVE I ALLOWED TO LIVE UNDER THE BANNER OF THE HORDE! SPEAK CHIEFTAIN!!!" Thrall roared.
"The name of he who would receive your judgment, Warchief….is Grommash Hellscream."
All the power abruptly winked out of Thralls body, and his eyes were wide in confusion.
"What?"
"The name, of he would receive your judgment, is Grommash Hellscream. I beg judgment of the Warchief…upon myself."
0o0o0o0o0o
"I can't believe it. I really, honestly can't," said the astonished woman.
"Sorry Lady Proudmoore, but it's the truth! Wilfred here got the fool idea to walk clear into visible range of their shamans and arrows, and here he is, untouched! Also, as you can see by the gut, it was most certainly not due to speed that he got out unscathed."
"Hey!" said the admittedly slightly more rotund footman.
"Wilfred, honestly, did you think I wasn't gonna say anything?" said his skinny companion.
"I thought you would be more professional, Gavin!" said Wilfred with a huff.
"Prof-Professional?! Like jumping out of formation and strolling into Horde territory like a loon?! That sort of professional, huh? Honestly!" said Gavin while whirling his arms.
"Gah, why am I even in the same squad as you?" Wilfred said while crossing his arms.
"Because we both came from the same bloody district from the same bloody city in the same bloody Gilneas! We're organized based on where we came from you idiot!" Gavin replied while poking Wilfred in the center of his Gilneas Brigade tabard.
"Right, that's it, come here you ponce!"
The two footmen looked ready to brawl, armor and all, before they were interrupted by a magically enhanced shout.
"PEOPLE!" shouted Jaina Proudmoore, her fingers rubbing circles into her temples.
"If you two are having extreme differences, please, take it to your commander. Do not fight in the room filled with expensive and fragile magical artifacts, please?"
Both footmen grew red in the face from embarrassment.
"Oh, right, of course."
"Terribly sorry Lady Proudmoore."
"Won't happen again, I swear it."
"Me too, honestly, had no intention to actually-"
"Stop. Please. Just give me the report and then leave," Jaina groaned.
"Uh, right. Ok, so, the Horde, two big war camps, clan icons identify them as Frostwolf and Warsong, but, as we know thanks to intelligence from the Lordaeron Corps, the Frostwolf Clan is just the current general banner for all the clans following Warchief Thrall and that whenever the Horde sets up for a long-term stay the various clans actually break out into their own camps but for simplicities sake during travel they just walk under the Frostwolf," said Wilfred.
"Yes, that's right. Both groups seemed pretty big, and ready for battle, but none have made any aggressive moves against any of the groups whatsoever. The only battles that the Horde seems to have gotten involved in was against those pig men we've fought already, and a few centaurs," said Gavin.
Once sure that that was all they had to say, both footmen were summarily booted out of Jaina's office. As they left, Jaina could hear the two begin arguing again and simply sighed and sipped from a tea cup until she finally had some blessed silence.
Waving a hand, she brought up some scattered reports she'd 'borrowed'. In them was all of the Alliances intelligence on Warchief Thrall. She scanned the pages, her eyes watching for any signs that she might be wrong. An hour and several re-reads later, she could find no evidence of such.
Getting out of the chair, she clasped the enchanted purple cloak about her body once more and grabbed her staff, taking comfort in the warm glow of energy that pulsed through it and her.
"So. You want to talk peace Thrall? Let's see if you can walk the walk too."
A set of blue circles with floating runes within them appeared around her, cycled once, and disappeared. Along with them teleported one of the strongest mages ever produced by the city of Dalaran.
0o0o0o0o0o
Harsh arguing echoed throughout the floating platform, the strange and twisted language of demons filled the air. Over thirty of some of the most powerful demons in the Burning Legion squabbled there, arms raised and fangs bared as they debated back and forth.
One trio stood apart, the largest standing head and shoulders above the other two and possessed great purple wings. The second tallest possessed a green wings and armor, and viciously debated with the smallest, a red winged demon whose pale face snarled back.
"It is no right of yours to claim leadership of the group Detheroc!" growled the red demon.
"I claimed it by right of combat Varimathas, either accept it or try again, but I warn you I shall devour your essence when I defeat you," said Detheroc angrily.
Similar arguments echoed out along the platform, all the various demons jockeying for dominance over matters both grand and petty.
Silently, an orange glow descended. Emanating it was a horrifically powerful winged demon, with a furious rage burning in his eyes. His enormous hooves clattered onto the stone in an enormous crack.
"Tichondrius is dead."
All of the Nathrezim quieted their eyes wide in shock at the statement.
"Impossible, how could Tichondrius –kkllk!" the dread lord was cut off as he was dragged before his better.
"Tichondrius was my brother, in more than just species worm. I felt it as his very essence was ripped asunder and obliterated!" the dread lord snarled before simply tearing the offending demon apart with his bare hands.
"Anetheron, what happened? What creature could the cattle possibly possess to match our strongest?" asked Varimathas fearfully.
"It was no creature, fool; none of the cattle could have matched him. No, no he was led into a trap of some sort that destroyed him so completely that he will never reform from the Twisting Nether," Anetheron roared in anger.
The Nathrezim hissed loudly, echoing Anetheron's fury. There was little love lost amongst demons, but the fact that Tichondrius had somehow been led permanent destruction grated at their sensibilities immensely. They would have continued screeching and displaying their anger but for a gesture from Anetheron.
"Enough! It matters no longer, I have been appointed to act in his place upon Azeroth. The ritual that brought my brother to that plane is no longer feasible, but I have been told that our chosen mortal implements, this…Scourge, have just claimed a stable and powerful enough Demon Gate to allow passage."
The demons cheered their approval that the world of Azeroth would still suffer under the hand of a Nathrezim, but were quieted once more.
"I came here for two reasons, one, to inform you of Tichondrius's demise, and second, to gather some of you to follow with me. Before his death, my brother confided in me that the Scourge, like all mortals, attempt to subvert themselves out from under the Legion's heel. While he alone could not keep track of all the myriad Scourge commanders, I intend to deal with such things…personally."
Several of the demons offered themselves, proclaiming their superiority in strength, magic's, and more, but Anetheron was not there to entertain offers. One massive claw pointed directly at a trio towards the back.
"Balnazzar, Detheroc, Varimathas, you will come with me."
"Yes, my lord!"
0o0o0o0o0o0o
Uther slapped his ear, trying to get rid of the annoying buzz. Finally giving an exasperated sigh he gave up, and turned towards the orc warlocks.
"Are you ready to begin the ritual?" he asked, surveying the camp as he did so.
It had been pathetically easy. A few well-placed banshees and the various commanders had fallen into line. A few 'sacrificial rituals demanded by the Masters' later, and the Scourge now commanded a mighty force of brutal Blackrock undead.
"Yes, Great One!" cried the head warlock, and they raised their arms high. Propped up, facing the gate, was Kel'Thuzad still inhabiting the dead elf Magisters corpse.
Blood sacrifices, both human and orcish, covered the altar in front of the demon gate. Far above, the new undead Red dragons flew lazily, spinning in circles around the frost wyrms…
Uther wrinkled his nose in distaste as the smell of demons began to exude from the Gate. They'd practically fallen onto the thing without meaning too, and Kel'Thuzad had just barely stopped them from destroying it to appease their instincts so that he could use it himself.
Rolling his shoulders, Uther stared into the flames as they turned from their natural red to fel greens. Suddenly, he coughed roughly and nearly dropped his blade. Waving away his concerned brothers, Uther stumbled away. As he left, the pain barely seemed to abate, and finally he sat himself on a stump facing away from the demon summoning ritual.
Eventually the pain subsided, and he stared at his twitching fingers. Shaking his head, he got back up and headed towards the ritual to observe again when the annoying noise from earlier began to grow louder. Still, with all the stoicism and self-control he possessed, he managed to ignore it.
He especially ignored how the noise seemed to sound like a familiar man yelling in one last glorious charge while suffused with holy Light.
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Chapter Five: Legends of Old
The Order of the Black Heart: Part Five
Legends of Old
A Warcraft III AU
"Move up those stones, I want this done as quickly as possible!" rang out the clear voice of the taskmaster.Legends of Old
A Warcraft III AU
Hundreds of carts filled with supplies covered the road, accompanied by Steam Tanks. A fleet of Gyrocopters filled the sky while interspersed with gryphon riders. The emblazoned symbols of Ironforge and Aerie Peak carpeted the different forces as they interacted heavily for the first time in generations. The fair skinned dwarves of Dun Morogh contrasted sharply with the weathered and tanned skin of the Wildhammer dwarves of the Hinterlands, but neither group segregated itself.
The Thandol Span was one of the greatest dwarf-made bridges and bridges in general on Azeroth. It had been used as a trade path that could handle whole armies of merchants. Now, it was being refurbished to serve a far more militant purpose. The noise was filled with the clanking of metal and stone.
Dwarf engineers blasted and pulverized rock to allow the bridge to be expanded while masons beneath the bridge fortified it so that it could be widened and support even greater weight. The middle sized town of Dun Modr had been transformed into a massive military fallback base. A supply chain that was miles long ran back across the Span and deep within the Wetlands to reach Loch Modan.
A massive man clad in red lined armor stood on a hill side within a large tent, scanning over a weather beaten map, an axe strapped to his back. Accompanying him were two dwarves, one wearing the heavy golden plate of Ironforge, and the other wearing rain-worn leathers that idly fingered a stormhammer.
"I appreciate both of you coming, I'll admit…I was not expecting either of you personally." said Thoras Trollbane as his eyes scrutinized the map.
In response the Aerie dwarf gave a loud snort.
"What, did ye think we were gonna let ya fight the Scourge and their demons alone, human? If Stromgarde falls the Aerie will surely be next!" he said gruffly.
"Aye, the same could be said o' the Wetlands, but I'll tell ye now that the dwarves of Ironforge woulda come anyway Thoras, we're part of the Alliance and dwarves honor our agreements. Don't we, Falstad?" said the more heavily equipped one with a squint at his fellow dwarf.
Falstad Wildhammer rolled his eyes.
"Aye, aye, I assumed that part went unsaid Magni, that's all," he said sardonically.
"Any who, me scouts have just come back from beyond the wall, and the news is not good," Magni Bronzebeard said grimly.
"It's true, a few o' me gryphon riders got as close as they dared without alarming the Scourge as well," Falstad said.
Thoras looked at them both and spit to the side angrily before calming himself.
"How bad," he asked.
Both dwarves looked at each other before engaging in the complicated game of trying to make the other be the deliverer of bad news.
"Dalaran is about to fall, but it's gonna fall hard," Falstad ended up saying while glaring at Magni.
"The Scourge and their demons burned their way through the city in chunks. It's visible from the scars on the battlefield that the mages set up some sort o' tiered defense. It was hellishly effective, ye can tell from the piles of dead Scourge at each layer of whatever it is, but every time it looks like the Scourge might fail, those winged demons, which, by the way, look to be in command which opens up a whole 'nother barrel of implications that I won't get inta, pull up a cadre of demons from somewhere to bust through," the wild haired dwarf reported.
"It's true. The demons are in command o' the Scourge, but at the moment all four of 'em look to be dealing with Dalaran personally while accompanied by…by," Magni tried to say, but it looked like it had a bad taste in his mouth.
He looked to the sky and then down at the earth before sighing while clenching his fists.
"It looks like the head Scourge commander that ain't a demon is none other than…Uther Lightbringer," he finally finished.
Thoras was the largest and most physically powerful king amongst all the human nations, but at those words he seemed to shrink in his armor. Falstad snorted again but his expression was stormy.
"I-I had hoped the reports were-" the Stromgarde king began before being cut off by Magni.
"The reports were not false, nor over-exaggeration. Th' Order of the Black Heart is still going strong with Uther being the mightiest yet, and while yes one o' them death knights was defeated by whatever the hell it is that the High Elves pulled, it wasn't him. The one who got…High Elf'd… was Halahk," Magni reported darkly.
Thoras growled to himself and walked away as both dwarves looked at one another with concern. He paced furiously back and forth before in a wild roar unsheathed the axe that was his namesake, and threw Trollbane into the trunk of a massive oak. Such was his incredible strength and fury that the axe slammed into the tree and sank down to the hilt. The tree's leaves shook wildly, and then to the astonishment of the dwarves the tree cracked, and fell over leaving behind a ragged stump.
The king of Stromgarde marched over to where the axe had fallen and picked it up again before returning while breathing heavily.
"Damn them, damn the Scourge for taking such noble men!" he said harshly.
He stared hard at the map, which on its own was a sad sight.
"Dalaran will have to make their stand there, it seems. There's no way we're getting through the rest of the Order," he said angrily.
It was true. The map was of Hillsbrad and Arathi, and the majority of its western half was slathered with Scourge symbols marked by green for general formations and purple for individual command groups. Green marked the majority of Hillsbrad, at least two thirds of it was concentrated on the doomed city of magi. What was of more immediate concern to all three commanders was the shades of purple that signified the suspected locations of Black Heart members.
A sea of green and purple markers were set to sieging Thoradin's Wall, which for its part was covered with the red shields of Stromgarde, the gryphon markers of the Aerie, and the hammers signifying groups from Ironforge. The armies of all three groups had united in their desperate attempt to keep the Scourge from breaching the Arathi Highlands.
"Aye, but I'll be damned if I let any o' the Scourge get inta Stromgarde, Thoras, ye have me oath on that," Magni said firmly.
"I'll drink ta that. Here, now, the Scourge are stopped!" Falstad said, pounding his fist on the table.
Thoras looked at them gratefully.
"Thank you my friends. It warms my heart that I have such stalwart allies. I only wish…" he trailed off when Magni placed his gauntleted hand onto the humans forearm.
"Me too, Thoras. If we had come to Lordaeron's assistance earlier, perhaps intervened, things could have been different. But we didn't, and we've got to live with that. We can't let ourselves be distracted by what we could have done, we have to focus on the present," the Bronzebeard said.
Thoras looked at him and then nodded, steeling himself.
"Right. Galen is fighting alongside the wall at the moment, and I have faith in my son to hold it in my absence. In the meantime, we've got a few more things to discuss," he said seriously.
Both dwarves nodded as Falstad stepped forward.
"Don't worry about the Boulderfists lad, me Riders have sent those lunks running back to their holes. They'll stop interfering with the supply convoys. Idiots probably saw the supply trains and thought that things were gonna turn around for them. It's not like the massive Scourge army was going to be enough of a sign that things are changing," the Wildhammer finished with a snort at the stupidity of ogres.
The sound of a gryphon captured everyone's attention and they turned their eyes to a blood soaked Wildhammer scout, grinning all the while with his stormhammer still sparking.
"Me Thane, I brought that news ye wanted!" said the young dwarf.
Falstad waved at the others to continue while he went to confer with his subordinate. Magni watched them with an unreadable expression on his face until he caught Thoras looking at him curiously.
"It's," Magni sighed, "it may be hard to explain to a human, but…Thoras, the Wildhammers and Bronzebeards haven't really seen each other in years. Oh, sure, riflemen and gryphon riders might be part of the same contingent, but it's rare that they talk about anything beyond their orders and commanders. This is the first time our disparate people have had lengthy dialogue beyond grunt soldier level in centuries," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
"It's the sort of thing my line has dreamt about for a long time. I just wish it didn't take the death of Lordaeron and Quel'Thalas to bring us together," the dwarf king said quietly, his gaze still on Falstad.
Eventually he turned away.
"Regardless, me an' Falstad have had our scouts looking out for them, and it's true. They're gone," Magni said.
Thoras stared at him before lifting his axe before his eyes to stare at it.
"I…I can't believe it. The forest trolls are just…gone?" he said incredulously.
His people had fought the trolls since before the human kingdoms had been formed! The Trollbanes gained their name from that fighting! Hell, they'd built their fame on a weapon constructed solely to kill trolls. The idea that the ancestral enemies of his family, of Stromgarde, of the Aerie and Ironforge and Lordaeron as well had simply…disappeared was something that beggared disbelief!
"It's true lad. The Witherbark, the Vilebranch, the Revantusk, all gone. Jintha'Alor, Hiri'watha, all of 'em. All emptied out. The forest trolls, as a people, up and left. The Hinterlands and the Highlands are empty of trolls for the first time in…ever, I think," said Magni with wonder.
Thoras shook his head.
"No, no it doesn't make sense. Why? No, that matters less at the moment than where. Where could the largest remaining population of living forest trolls on the continent disappear to?" He gestured wildly.
"We've got another problem lad," Falstad interrupted. Behind him, the Wildhammer scout took to the skies once more.
Both Magni and Thoras turned to the Wildhammer Thane who had a troubled look to his face.
"The Black Heart's, they're laying siege to the Wall all right. But…one of 'ems missing," Falstad said.
Thoras blinked.
"What?" he asked.
"Yeah, that boy that just left nearly got chomped by a frost wyrm, but he was scouting out the enemy commander positions. We can take one of those purple skulls off, Magroth isn't there like we thought," Falstad said sourly as he pulled one of the purple makers off and tossed it.
"Gavinrad is leading the siege with Sage and Dagren, but the Defender is not on the battlefield," he continued.
"The Scourge isn't using one of their precious Black Hearts? Where the hell is he then?"
0o0o0o0o0
The snow storms of Alterac were legendary for their fierceness and ability to snow-blind just about anyone who had the misfortune to be caught in one. Luckily, the Blackrock had scraped out a settlement in an area that was just perfectly situated to block out the worse of the elements. The valley walls and peaks kept the winds from being too strong, even if a healthy amount of snow and frost still managed to coat the trees and earth. Luckily, Magroth the Defender was a death knight, and so did not feel the chill. He ran though the center of the camp as the screams and shouts of the Scourge sounded as the battle spread throughout the encampment. For the past two weeks he had been ensuring that the Scourge kept the Gate defended. It was a thankless duty, and though he had longed to protect the King, he trusted in Uther to fulfill that duty while Tichondrius's reinforcements took Dalaran.
None of the Black Hearts had been particularly happy about that surprise. While to be sure they had expected Tichondrius's replacement to come, they had not expected the addition of three new dread lords. Despite their wishes, a full two thirds of the Scourge had been pulled out from under the Black Heart's command, leaving Arthas's lieutenants with severely depleted forces.
Magroth's black warhammer swung out and snapped a spine in half, the force of the blow killing the foe instantly. He did not even blink as a spear flew inches away from his skull. With a cry and an upraised fist a coil of death flew out to strike his attacker in the chest, killing them as their innards withered and rotted before their very eyes.
Then, the demons had infuriated them further, by separating them out! Uther was kept close to keep an eye on in Dalaran, while the others were sent away from their King to batter down Thoradin's Wall. Magroth, for his successes at defense during the Second War from the rampaging orcs, had been given the most thankless duty of all.
While the Demon Gate had fulfilled its original purpose, the dread lords had ordered that it remain open and protected. The Blackrock, even in undeath, exulted in this duty, their duty to the Legion keeping them working feverishly day and night now that they no longer required food or sleep. Even now, the gate belched out a steady stream of demonic soldiers that carved a path of destruction and corruption down from the mountains and towards Dalaran below.
"Die you mindless beasts!" he roared as he waded into battle.
That stream of demons was soon to end.
All around him the Scourge fought a desperate battle. An abomination was filled with over a dozen spears but continued to fight, laughing all the while. There was a ludicrously loud hissing akin to a snake only magnified, and then a hail of green bolts composed of acidic venom was landing amongst Magroth's forces. Of the few things that could permanently damage the Scourge, acid was one of the most effective.
One of the two frost wyrms that Magroth had been left with was grounded by harpoon based nets, though it screeched and clawed, it would soon fall silent before the death knights eyes. Yelling in fury, he continued to fight, his unholy armor and magic's protecting him well but even for all of his power, he was but one man.
His powers were not nearly the strength of Uther, much less the King, but Magroth was still a member of the Black Heart, and he refused to go down easily.
"Blasted trolls!" he thundered once more.
An army dwarfing his own had appeared from nowhere in the mountains, completely surrounding the camp and the Demon Gate. They had not chosen to use any tactics whatsoever, instead charging down the slope in mindless fury. They outnumbered the Scourge taskforce guarding the gate ten to one, and even then the more organized Scourge had worn them down heavily.
"So this is what the living face in the Scourge," the Defender said with dark humor.
For once, the Scourge was the more organized and outnumbered force. Indeed, the roles seemed reversed completely from normal. The Scourge retreated continuously but dearly sold every given inch with structured and organized retreats, while the trolls simply threw themselves again and again into the undead formations to overwhelm them with numbers.
Wielding crude weapons of stone and bone with a few of metallic construction, the trolls came screaming out of the snowstorm. They leapt over piles of their dead to drag single zombies to the ground and tear them to shreds with their tusks and bare hands if they had too. Some goaded massive bears, others ran ahead of enormous lynx's. More numerous than all of them were the hordes of bloodthirsty raptors that ripped and tore with their fangs and claws.
Magroth called out with his powers once more and revived the fallen frost wyrm, and as the blue core filled with energy again it bellowed in rage. Gouts of frost flew out and crashed into the trolls, buffeting their advance. It's claws sliced a dozen trolls in half in a minute, blood and cuts coating the snow.
"Beat them back! For Lordaeron! For the King! For Arth-kklk!" Magroth's rallying cry halted as he choked. His warhammer fell from suddenly limp fingers.
He looked down in surprise at the blade sticking through his chest, just below his throat. It had ornate carvings, and glowed with an ugly green light. The death knight reached up a hand to touch the blade and had just tapped it with a finger before it was pulled back out. Magroth fell to the ground.
"I….hate…you, death knight," came a voice filled with millennia old rage.
"I…hate…you, for what ya Scourge did," it continued.
Magroth struggled. The blow itself would have been fatal to anyone not undead, but the magic and poison on the blade was tremendously painful. His vision darkened even as he reached for his dropped warhammer.
"Dat boy, Arthas, he comes into our home, kills us, and den has de gall to say that he owns de Amani…"
Just before his fingers could reach his weapon, a green foot stomped down onto the hilt and then kicked it away into the snow. Noises of choked distress came from the death knight as he attempted to get up.
"He takes all me people, and den drags dem up ta Silva-moon. Den, he does sometin' I didn't even know was possible."
Magroth could hear the Scourge fighting, all around him, but even as he attempted to call some to his aid his senses felt muted, and none of the undead turned to assist the commander.
"He wins! He takes all de Amani, and he does what we done been tryin' ta do for more den seven thousand years!!!"
He could hear his attacker moving around, the crunch of snow as they walked around him. The magical poison sliced through his veins, burning him from within.
"I never, ever, thought I'd say dis, but it wasn't worth it, did ya know dat? De Amani get what de always wanted, what I always wanted, sometin' dat all de forest trolls eva wanted, and den he twists de whole thing 'round!"
"I used ta tink that I would give anything ta see Silva-moon gone, and de High Elves crushed. Well I got what I wanted, and now, now more den anything I would rather see all de High Elves sittin' pretty on dere spires den what ya Scourge done dragged the Amani into!"
On the word spires Magroth felt the blade from before stab down into his leg and begin to drag him. Soon, other hands grasped around his body and lifted him up even as he fought back weakly.
"But congratulations, Scourge! Ya done did what I never thought was possible! Ya took a look at seven thousand years a' hatred and rage at de elves and humans, and ya come and top it wit gusto!"
The death knight was thrown heavily onto his back, his bulk crushing numerous bones. He had been thrown onto the very altar that the Blackrock had sacrificed their offerings to the Legion on. Magroth's eyes cast themselves to the Gate, hoping to see some form of demonic reinforcements, only in dismay to watch as strange shimmering lights impacted onto the gate.
Over a dozen witch doctors stood casting their spells at the Demon Gate, all beseeching different spirits and powers to assist them. The red and black stone began to crumble, and the fel glow flickered twice before simply going out.
"I would kiss an elf if it would help me kill ya blasted undead at dis point. Do ya even realize what dat sort of thing would mean for me, huh?!"
Then someone leapt on the death knight's body, feet first. Squatting down until their faces were inches away from one another was a battle scarred troll. Magroth's eyes widened as he spied the wrapped stump that terminated the trolls left arm above the elbow. But what truly surprised him was that the troll was…crying. With rage and grief to be sure, but still tears fell from the trolls eyes. The lower half of its face was obscured behind a ragged purple veil, but not the eyes.
As the strange glowing blade in the troll's remaining arm swung down to separate Magroth's head from his shoulders, the troll screamed at him, at the world, at existence.
"I'm gonna destroy ever last scrap of da Scourge for taking Zul'Aman from me, ya hear me? EVERY LAST SCRAP!" screamed Zul'jin, last true warlord of the Amani Empire.
0o0o0o0o0o0o
Miles away and on the outskirts of Dalaran, twenty abominations and a whole battalion of former Lordaeron knights stood guard. At the very center of their formation were a hundred of the most powerful magic users in the Cult of the Damned, and situated at the center of that circle was a black mausoleum that glowed fiercely with unholy light.One looked up, his concentration interrupted. His companion noticed and raised an eyebrow.
"Did you hear that?" the first asked.
"Hear what?" said the second.
The first cocked his head with his eyes closed, and then opened them while grinning.
"Can't you tell? Frostmourne has quieted. It no longer needs to rage," he said.
Upon seeing his companion's puzzlement, he continued with a sigh.
"It means, you fool, that soon…the King shall awake."
The eyes of the second Cult member widened as he too realized that he could no longer hear Frostmourne channeling all its might into its wielder to heal them.
"Soon."
The mausoleum shuddered.
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Chapter Six: The Children of Death
The Order of the Black Heart: Part Six
The Children of Death
A Warcraft III AU
Glasses tinkled amongst the sound of merry fanfare and raucous laughter. Great stained glass windows with beautiful artwork still let in an appreciable level of cheerful afternoon sunlight. Vast amounts of food was placed on thick stone tables, and one of the highest acclaimed classical orchestras in Azeroth played for the party goer's personal enjoyment.
"Then, the peasant has the gall to say, 'Help! Help! I'm being oppressed!' I mean, honestly. Because I didn't want to pay for the shoddy work he'd done on my horses shoes?!" a man in exceedingly fine silks burst into laughter at the story.
"Oh, my word Lord Lescovar, you do tell the best stories," replied a gorgeous brunette with clear admiration in her tone.
All throughout the ballroom danced, caroused, and socialized the most powerful men and women in Stormwind. They were the myriad members of the House of Nobles, and they were all having a wonderful time. The highlight of the party was, of course, Lady Katrana Prestor, who many whispered was the true power in Stormwind ever since the King fell into his great depression.
Many others whispered back: why shouldn't she be? She was the most beautiful, rich, and intelligent woman in the kingdom, and nowadays it was her that any noble with troubles came to, regardless of the importance of the issue. For Lady Prestor were a kind woman, and an open ear to any who needed one. After all, how could the people rely on Varian when he refused all petitioners to the throne room, especially after the Stonemason's Guild Debacle and the death of his wife?
The doors to the ballroom opened, and a very proper looking butler cleared his throat. He'd had many years of experience, and so despite the smallness of the action, the volume echoed out quite well through the richly decorated party. Voices quieted and conversations temporarily halted as heads turned to watch and listen.
"Ahem. Now announcing His Lordship Victor Prestor, brother to the esteemed Lady Prestor," he said briskly.
His task done, the butler bowed and withdrew, closing the large cherry wood doors behind the new arrival. As such, the attention of the entire room was able to focus on the man who languidly walked down the stairs.
He was a perfect biological mirror to the Lady, his fair skin flawless and his features incredibly handsome. Victor seemed utterly unconcerned that he had come without warning, and his eyes were half-closed while a small smile curved his lips as he crossed the luxurious carpets in a confident stride. Despite that partial concealment, the sharper nobles noticed the power and presence that followed the Prestor like a shadow, and that in his eyes lurked a powerful intelligence.
However, much of this went unnoticed to the larger majority of nobles, who began to whisper and gossip as was their nature when the Prestor passed, for more obvious reasons.
In an utter contrast to the silk and softness that often characterized Katrana's choices in clothing, her brother was clad in tightly molded black armor with a dull sheen to it. The metal of his greaves crushed down the carpets as he passed, marking his slowly weaving path around groups that soon straightened as those in his path began to move out of his way when his destination became apparent. The music had stopped as well, and instead the rhythm of chainmail clinking beneath the plates became its replacement.
Furthermore, he was in clear violation of the regulations to leave all weapons larger than a small dagger for personal protection, a black scabbard was slung along his hip that clearly still contained its blade.
The nobles surrounding his sister scattered as they retreated away from the incoming Prestor, leaving the two to face one another in the silence.
Unlike her brother, Katrana was in a fetching purple and black dress of high-quality silk and a daring but tactful cut. Precious gems socketed in sparkling gold made up her incredibly opulent jewelry but did not overwhelm her outfit in tasteless amounts. In her hand was a crystal goblet with a dark and expensive wine, the liquid alone worth more than even some of the nobles in the room would see in their lifetime.
Amusement danced in her eyes, just as it did in her brothers.
"Victor, a surprise to see you so far south from you're home!" she exclaimed brightly as she placed her hand out palm down.
Her brother gave the flash of a smirk that set a few ladies hearts swooning before leaning down to lightly press his lips to Katrana's fingers. Then unbent and gave a dazzling smile.
"Ah, my lovely sister…yes indeed, I have come south to visit you, but I'm afraid that I do not come for pleasure," he said with regret tinging his voice.
Katrana's lips formed into a perfect O that was soon covered by her hand.
"My, what could be so important as to drag you here then?" she asked innocently.
In response, Victor leaned close until his mouth was directly by her ear. Numerous others attempted to look like they weren't trying to hear what was said as they leaned in, but none managed it well. So it was that only Victor and Katrana heard what the armored man had to say.
Whatever it was he whispered, it was barely more than two or three sentences. But what was far more interesting to the nobles watching was what occurred next.
The people of Stormwind, noble and commoner alike, no one had ever seen Katrana Prestor angry or scared. To be sure, they had seen her be good-naturedly annoyed, or even exasperated at some persistent suitor, but never in anyone's memory could they remember the visible flash of unadulterated fury, hatred, and fear that clouded her lovely face.
The party goers were shocked further when she shoved him back forcefully with more strength than her lithe frame would have implied. She then grabbed him by the arm and marched, the crystal goblet slammed onto a table as they left. With her free arm she ripped open the doors, pushed her brother through, and then turned to the surprise-filled faces of the House of Nobles.
"I apologize; something incredibly important has just come up. Please, continue the party without me!" she said breathlessly, and then the doors shut with a slam.
The gossip started immediately.
Numerous servants had to be brought in a few minutes later as the goblet and the table it had been deposited on cracked and fell apart.
0o0o0o0o0o
In a private room that was magically soundproofed and enchanted to prevent scrying, the two siblings discussed.
Katrana paced back and forth, snarling under her breath in a most unladylike manner, her fists clenching and unclenching. She muttered furiously until a black armored hand touched her on the shoulder. She smacked the hand away before turning to glare at her brother.
The endless pools of purple that had been her eyes before were radically changed. In their place were black reptilian orbs with greenish yellow irises that glowed with deadly power. All of the nails on the hand that had smacked the black armor away had grown into claws that rent scratches into the metal, and her pale skin had changed in color and consistency to become much darker and thicker.
"Don't touch me Nefarian," she growled gutturally in a voice that her slender throat should not have managed.
Victor, or Nefarian as she had called him, looked at her with amusement.
"After all the effort I went to come to you in human form, custom crafting armor, enchanting the guards and servants…all to appear as a Prestor to your ensorcelled puppets and you tear down the façade just like that?" he chided her.
She simply glared at him.
"Honestly Onyxia, I thought better of your abilities of self-control!" he said with laughter in his voice.
Her glare turned incredulous.
"That's what you want to talk about, instead of the largest threat our flight has faced in thousands of years?!" she practically shrieked.
The amusement in Nefarian's eyes extinguished itself and his tone turned cold as he roughly grabbed Onyxia by the arm and drew her face towards his own.
"If you would have me be serious then mirror your own advice little sister, and control yourself before I make you," he snarled, his charming voice replaced with a monstrous echo.
Onyxia hissed before ripping her arm out of his grasp and walking to the other side of the room. She took several deep breaths and clenched her fists hard enough to draw bruise. A few minutes later, she tossed her hair and returned. Her eyes had returned to their purple shade and more importantly human shape, and her skin had become pale and supple once more.
"I am in control, brother. Please, no more games," she said, her voice calm.
Nefarian nodded with approval before speaking.
"You are aware, of course, of the Scourge?" he asked.
His sister nodded.
"Indeed, I had thought to let them run rampant amongst the northern kingdoms before pushing Varian to claiming that land for himself," she replied.
Nefarian gave a dark chuckle.
"Well, it seems that won't be an issue, what with over two thirds of the living in those lands turned undead. But that is not the point, sister, the point, is that the masterminds of the Scourge have revealed themselves," he said before turning away to gaze out a stain glass window.
Onyxia cocked her head in confusion.
"What, the Cult of the Damned? But I thought we had already decided that-" she stopped as Nefarian whirled on her.
"They are but puppets!" he hissed, "this we knew, but we knew not who held the leash!"
Her eyes widened.
"The Legion commands the Scourge?!" she said in surprise.
Nefarian nodded.
"Indeed. I had disliked the idea of losing the Sunwell as a potential asset because of the Scourge, and decided to investigate. I arrived just as it was destroyed by that foolish woman Sylvanas...," he trailed off.
Onyxia rolled a hand for him to continue.
"What occurred…I do not know the full implications or methods behind it, but that is not the point. Through the use of projection I found the final solution of the elves, a ritual of some sort. The ritual ended up being interrupted by an incredibly powerful demon, a Nathrezim. You would not know them, but before father disappeared he told me of those creatures back when they first attempted to take our world. He attempted to intervene in the ritual that the elves were performing, and managed to disrupt it heavily."
Nefarian snorted.
"It was the entirely wrong thing to do. The magisters had been focusing an immense amount of arcane power alongside a group of warlocks as they channeled a tremendous amount of fel magic. There were also some of their more powerful priests. Despite all of their protections, they nearly didn't get around to it," Nefarian said as he began to pace the room.
"The demon thought itself so clever when it arrested control of the warlock channeling to summon an ally instead of whatever it was they had originally been intending to do. It knew that it could not allow the Sunwell to be destroyed or tainted by a different force than what was intended, so it tried to stop them. The thing it summoned, it was an ugly creature, but in its revelry at being summoned it stomped the warlocks to jelly," the man continued.
Onyxia gave a little chuckle at the thought of squished elves that died quickly at the look Nefarian shot at her before he went on.
"Heh. The whole ritual would have gone awry, but the Grand Magister of the elves took up the work of…how many was it…forty three, yes about forty three warlocks and performed that third of the work himself. Then, well, I could feel it."
"It?" the sister said curiously.
"The world, Onyxia. The world was stretching and pulling, like reality itself was tearing apart. I do not know what would have happened if my projection was caught in the ensuing explosion, but I did not care to find out. That Sylvanas woman though, she used some sort of magical arrow net to hold the demons down before attempting to escape," he said with the barest hint of respect at what the elf had defeated.
"Why do you say attempting?" Onyxia asked.
"Because she didn't. Oh, sure, she got off the island, but she and a lot of others were caught in the effects of the blast even if they were not directly hit by it," he said waving his arm absentmindedly.
Onyxia hummed an 'ah'.
"I had assumed that a singularly powerful demon had been in command of the Scourge as some sort of pet project and that was the one that died. I believed that it had been intending to take control of the Sunwell, but I suppose that it's tool in the Scourge was too effective. They pushed too fast and too quickly so Windrunner escalated," Nefarian scoffed at the loss of such a valuable commodity.
"Idiot creature was killed along with its fat little pet as well. However, later, the undead came into possession of a Demon Gate and summoned more Nathrezim," he finished as understanding glimmered in his sisters eyes.
"A single Nathrezim making a power play is one thing, a whole cadre is another?" she asked, though both knew the answer.
"Indeed little sister. Most demons hold the stink of the Legion on them, but these ones were practically drenched with it," her brother replied anyway.
"What's more, the new ones took control of the Scourge and started ordering them about. Both of us were planning on letting the Scourge run its course, but we cannot ignore the Legion. Any other force on the planet would push us from our homes and try to challenge our dominion over this world, but the Legion only plans to scour and turn it to a charred husk," he growled.
Onyxia growled as well. For all his talk of self-control earlier, Nefarian's body seemed to swell in his armor. Then, he stopped pacing the room and turned to her, their faces only a few inches apart.
"We will not allow that to happen, understood? Release the human king from your ensorcellment along with the rest or don't, it makes no difference to me. But you will prepare for the oncoming storm, am I understood? I am doing the same with my own forces, you will note that I've pulled them back out of Redridge and the Steppes completely back into the mountain," he said.
"I understand brother, I will go to work immediately," she said before moving back and bowing.
Perhaps, in another time, a later time, she would have been in a better place, her chosen forces strong enough that she would be Nefarian's equal, but in this case however slight it may have been he was the superior.
Such was the way amongst dragons, human disguises or not.
Her brother nodded and headed for the door. Just before opening it though, he turned to face Onyxia once more.
"The Legion has clearly forgotten father's legacy, and with his disappearance it is up to us to show them that they should have never come back to Azeroth. But don't worry sister, between the two of us, the Legion shall once more know fear at the hands of the scions of Deathwing!" he snarled, his own eyes becoming luminescent and reptilian before he pulled the door open and disappeared back into the world.
Chapter Seven: The Fall of Dalaran
The Order of the Black Heart: Part Seven
The Fall of Dalaran
A Warcraft III AU
IT IS DIMINISHED.The Fall of Dalaran
A Warcraft III AU
When it began, it was but a mewling thing barely able to reach out and touch the world from within its prison. Though over time that same prison became a place of power, it would first have to discover the method with which to strengthen and nourish it.
THE FRAGMENT WAS NEARLY DESTROYED.
Cast out of pure will, energy, and hatred, thrust out through the container. Power spills forth from the rip like water out of a cut flask, but enough is produced to offset. It only grows over time, strengthening as it devoured the minds and souls of Northrend.
THE VESSEL WAS NEARLY DESTROYED.
Such an injury was sustained that it took vast reserves of power to keep them functioning. The cost was nearly its own destruction. So much of what it controlled, gone, in the blink of an eye and a flash that tore at the body, mind, and soul. Power unmatched had flowed through the fragment as life support.
IT IS DIMINISHED.
More power than was acceptable. More power than it could realistically afford to spend, yet it was now locked into its course, it had to continue. Now, the only reason it held control over the lands beyond its continent of residence at all was because of the fragment and the conduit it provided. It required more, it needed to nourish once more on mind and soul.
ANUB'ARAK.
It had thusly partaken of the selection of lives in Northrend with care, cultivating life as one would a delicate medicinal plant one needed in emergencies. The Storm Peaks were not worth it, and as of yet the pillars to the west blocked it still.
AWAKEN.
But there was another place in Northrend. Full of life and energy, its inhabitants foolishly believing that the reason they had not yet been devoured by the Scourge was due to their 'great power and ferocity'. The frost trolls had lived in the north since before the Lich King's arrival, and they were certain they would be there once it was gone.
GO FORTH, AND SERVE THE LICH KING.
Soon, the Drakkari Empire of Gun'Drak would learn just how wrong they were.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Deep within the dust and decay of Azjol-Nerub, a bulk of muscle and chitin stirred.
0o0o0o0o0o0
Dalaran burned.
For a week, the most brilliant minds and most powerful magi that the city could produce had fought their desperate battle. Such was the volume and power of spells released that any other foe would have long since retreated, the smell of death accompanying thousands of casualties everywhere. In the skies, hordes of flying gargoyles and frost wyrms flew, raining death against any unfortunates below. Every now and then a group of winged demons would appear as well before dropping down to begin slaughtering on the ground.
Though the skies belonged to the undead Scourge and their demonic masters, the living and dead still fought for dominance on the ground.
"Hyah!" shouted an old man as he thrust out a wizened hand.
A small ball of pure light shot outwards from his index finger, and impacted directly into the belly of an abomination. Upon contact, the sphere rapidly expanded and before the creature could finish squealing in surprise the ball grew beyond its skull and consumed everything in a fifteen foot diameter sphere. In a blink, the sphere disappeared, and with it went the abomination, the ghouls that had been swarming alongside it, and a large scoop of the cobblestones and pavement.
Immediately behind them burst another two abominations and a dozen demons, made of stone and infernal flames. Upon spotting him, they charged, the abominations squealing in joy and the demons giving roars like grinding rocks.
His eyes widened, and with a sweep of his arm came a wave of ice, the spikes impaling one abomination but only tearing at the stomach of the other. The Infernals set their shoulders and burst through to get close to him. The mage leapt away as a fist came crashing down onto his former position, and the skull face of the Infernal opened its mouth and screamed in rage. It straightened and swung again before being flung backwards into its fellows by a blast of arcane energy.
"Come beasts, meet your doom!" the old man shouted in a thin reedy voice. Power lit up the mages silhouette, blinding the abominations.
One hand held lightning, the other a ball of frost, and both flew at the feet of his foes. An explosion of dust and magic erupted, carving great chunks of stone out of the bodies of the Infernals. Five were simply so damaged that they crumbled, unable to maintain their bodies. The others roared again, several igniting with great auras of immolating fel flames as they charged once more.
A bolt of lightning pierced one through the center of its torso, and it fell to the ground even as the rest of its fellows picked up speed towards their target. Another small ball of light flew out and repeated its previous rapid expansion and swallowed up another two. Still, the rage-fueled Infernals charged. Finally, the mage's staff glowed brightly and he swung it over his head and then down like a hammer onto the pavement just as the first reached him.
Dozens of rapid fire shockwaves made of arcane energy tore apart the street from one end to another, sending the Infernals and the remaining abomination flying as they were ripped to shreds by the powerful force. Stones were ripped from the earth and great cracks expanded outwards like in an earthquake while windows and doors were shattered and ripped from their holdings to turn the entire block affected into a swirling maelstrom of energy and death.
The mage collapsed to the ground on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. He gasped in smoke-filled air only to end up coughing most of it out, his weary old chest rattling dangerously with every cough. Hot phlegm speckled with blood spattered the ground before he stood. Stumbling slightly, he leaned on the walls of buildings as he picked his way through the streets. It was to his surprise when a Scourge geist leapt down to tear his throat open.
The mage died, drowning in his own blood while he watched a burning sky.
Battle rang out elsewhere and everywhere in the district, spells of great power going off and repeatedly cutting grievous losses into the Scourge, but still they came. The martial garrisons of Dalaran had been fighting the enemy from the very beginning, but now, two weeks since the Siege of Dalaran began, they were almost completely depleted.
A charge of living knights slammed into the undead knights of Lordaeron, the two forces stabbing and cutting each other apart. Arrows flew out and stabbed into bodies from skeletal archers, the undead uncaring of whether or not they hit their own comrades. One undead knight was struck in the skull by one but continued to fight until its head was removed from its shoulders.
Four squads of dwarven riflemen cycled through ammo cases as they poured metal fury into the oncoming hordes of undead. Flesh and bone were torn apart by the maelstrom of hot lead, but so focused were they on keeping the undead from breaching their small defended compound that they did not see the red wings that descended behind them. Massive claws rang out as a dread lord partook in a welcome feast of souls.
Yet Dalaran fought on, every single person in the district alive fighting desperately to keep the Scourge out. The only thing that kept them going even to their deaths was the knowledge and sight of a shimmering purple aura that covered the center of Dalaran. It was concrete proof that the Council of Six still lived, and that the Kirin Tor had not teleported away as cowards despite their obvious ability to do so.
It was a faint spark of defiance in the face of certain doom, but it was enough. That faint burning spirit had been what allowed this last desperate two days, weary men and women without sleep or rest of any kind fighting...and dying.
This was why it broke the back of the defense so completely and instantly when the shimmering aura went down. Swords stopped hacking, guns stopped firing, and a spell in mid-cast ceased. Bleary tear filled eyes stared uncomprehendingly at the fallen magical shield, and resistance to the ceaseless undead crumbled.
The undead howled, and swept over the defenders in a wave of mindless fury. Yet, a few moments later, they were streaming away from the city out of fear of being consumed in fire and true death.
0o0o0o0o0o0
Five Minutes Before the Last Shield Fell
Flames crackled and burned surrounding the area, but did not intrude upon the clear white marble. In a city filled with the dead and dying, the blood of demons and the living spilled in rivers, this place remained pristine.Large columns of stone stood and visibly radiated magic, while a small group of trees lined the edges. There was a wall made of conjured stone, fortified and given permanence by generations of magic users, cutting off all but one side of the square. Even then, a thin path of cobblestone led from the devastation outside and wound about the clearing until it finally terminated in the precise, exact center of Dalaran.
The clearing was open to the air by way of the entrance and lack of roof, but power was heavy in this place. It set a level of unnatural gravity, and one did not lightly walk there. Only the most powerful mages in the Kirin Tor were allowed in this quiet grove, their lesser too weak and untested in both mind and body to withstand the place for long.
The reason for this sat quietly floating, with no input from its guardians, above a short squat pillar. If the clearing itself radiated power like a quiet beast, the object radiated power like the stars themselves.
It did not quite make sense, for it was not some chained monster from beyond the Twisting Nether, nor was it the still living essence of a creature beyond comprehension. It was, in fact, just a large tome.
It was thick, to be sure, almost a full adult male hand length from wrist to the tips of the longest finger, but of quite practical and simple make. Its binding was, at first glance, simple leather. Its pages nearly burst from the covers so full the book was. But, to any who saw it, truly saw it beyond what normal eyesight could see, it was far more than just a book.
It was, to many of the Kirin Tor, The Book. In its pages was enough knowledge to catapult even the weakest mage to the loftiest heights of power, and many in the past had attempted to use it as such. But, it retained a semblance of power from its writer, and so those that attempted to abuse the tome often found themselves slowly driven to insane paranoia and self-destruction with the power at their fingertips.
The number of people in the Kirin Tor who had perused its passages without this occurring could be counted on one human hand. One had been a dragon, another an elf, and another a half-elf. There was literally only one normal human being who had read its pages and come out the other side whole. That alone was one of his more impressive achievements even regarding all the others in his long life.
The Book of Medivh was not to be trifled with after all.
Archmage Antonidas was currently slumped, his back to the pedestal of the book he had read a fragment of so long ago. His long white beard was soaked through with blood, and a trail of that same precious liquid marked his slow crawl from the entrance to the clearing. The staff that had been his long companion lay snapped in twain, and his eyes fluttered while both hands pressed themselves to his stomach in an attempt to prevent his intestines from spilling. His noble steed had been cut down days before, and it brought him regret to know it's bones lay in the middle of a street somewhere out in the dying city.
Heavy metal boots intruded on the clearing, and carried with them an aura of pure death and hatred so powerful that it forced the dying elder to gag. He coughed horrendously, blood spilling from his lips unbidden. Antonidas's eyes focused then, and looked up. A grimace intruded on the rictus of pain on his face as he saw the reason for his beloved homes destruction.
For the Kirin Tor had actually been winning. It had been a near thing, but when the stream of demons from the mountains had ceased, the custom crafted anti-undead field that Antonidas had created had once more proven an effective tool. The demons could no longer brute force their way through the defenses, and the undead burned their own numbers down ceaselessly at their infernal master's orders. The Kirin Tor had been winning, and hope had begun to once more take root in their hearts.
But it all changed once more and the pendulum of fate had swung back against them.
"A-Arthas…" Antonidas managed to say through the coughing.
0o0o0o0o0o0
1 Month and Two Weeks Ago
"Onwards Amani warriors, victory to the Scourge and death to the High Elves!" cried the King of Lordaeron.Frostmourne cut down a score of soldiers in as many seconds, and an outstretched hand sent a bolt of energy to explode amongst a rallying group of archers. He laughed as the devilsaur zombie he'd created crushed numerous ballistae under its heel before using its height to reach a group of magisters on the rooftops. One massive crunch of its jaws and no more fireballs fell among his troops.
The Amani were an incredible force, so filled with rage and unholy might that they had rapidly outpaced the rest of the Scourge who only now were just reaching the gates. In the back of his mind he felt Halahk leading the way through the shattered gates, but the rest of the Black Hearts were on their way as well.
Arthas grinned to himself at the thought of his victory and of the dismay that Tichondrius had tried so hard to hide when the death knight had returned from taking Zul'Aman with a new army.
The demon had acted dismissive, but Arthas knew that it was fearful of how he had consumed the power of the Amani Loa. Such powerful spirits had greatly empowered him, and he derived an almost perverse amount of pleasure from hearing the 'gods of the Amani' scream as they were devoured by the power of Frostmourne.
Then, the world shook. Arthas nearly fell to the ground but caught himself with Frostmourne's blade. His mind screamed a warning and leapt out of the way of a crashing spire. Without the unholy speed granted to him, he would have been crushed to paste along with the dozen buildings destroyed by the falling pillar. The world shook again, but this time on a level beyond the physical, and Arthas roared in pain as his mind was assaulted by sheer wrongness. It went beyond the corruption of undeath, to the higher levels of reality itself.
The pain was unbearable, and even through his squeezing eyes he saw that the phenomenon was being echoed across the rest of the Scourge. What surprised him was how the High Elves as well were affected, many looking horrified and confused. Still, he fought on and cut a few more down before he was forced to stop.
"What…is….happening!?!" he managed to grit out before another wave of….something rocked through the city.
There was a loud crash and he looked to find Tichondrius fallen to the earth, his expression pained and dazed.
"Ticho-," but then Arthas was cut off as the shaking increased and the earth itself seemed to roar and scream in pain.
"TICHONDRIUS!" Arthas bellowed this time, his voice just barely reaching the dread lord a few feet away as the demon unsteadily got to its feet.
The demon looked to him, its expression tinged with confusion.
"WHAT IS HAPPENIN-ARRRGH!" Arthas yelled again, but was then thrown dozens of feet away by another shockwave to crash through a stone wall, the nearby smash of the demon echoing his own predicament.
A wave, this time of pure Holy energy, had flown outwards incinerating thousands of undead, the majority of which were the lead elements of the Scourge in the forms of the raised Amani.
It repeated itself again, and again, with alternating forces. Pure arcane energy in the form of sheer force flowed outwards, crushing and crumbling numerous buildings and pulverizing even more of the Scourge. Then, fel green flames flew outwards, setting fire almost every inch of stone it reached. Finally, another blast of Holy energy burned its way through the streets.
"THE SUNWELL! THE ELVES ATTEMPT TO DENY THE MASTERS THEIR PRIZE!" Tichondrius roared in his ear with fury and surprise.
"WE MUST STOP THEM! THEY CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO DESTROY IT!" the Nathrezim bellowed before lifting off.
"TICHONDRIUS!! WAIT! TAKE ME WITH YOU!" Arthas demanded, refusing to not be involved in stopping the ritual, whatever it was.
But it was useless; the demon had already flown off in a blaze of speed towards the Sunwell. Arthas raged at the indignity before being bowled over once more. Fury ignited in him and he rose, this time with determination blazing in his eyes.
Frostmourne glowed fiercely, and he slammed the point into the ground. Waves of frost came billowing out of it and gathered about his feet and began to grow a barrier between him and…whatever it was that was destroying the city. He slowly began to entrench himself, refusing to move until Tichondrius did whatever he had to in order to stop the Sunwell from being destroyed.
He turned to look at the suddenly appearing Halahk who nodded and took up a place by his King, and then his head turned around to see the face of Kel'Thuzad's specter in front of him.
"Kel'Thuzad? What are you do-," the death knight began.
"NO! Arthas, listen to me, you must leave this place! The ritual of the High Elves is too far gone, you must escape! I will do what I can to slow it but the process has already begun!" Kel'Thuzad said furiously.
Confusion was evident on the King's face.
"What are you talking-," he started to ask.
"LEAVE! IF YOU DO NOT RETREAT NOW YOU AND ALL THE LICH KINGS PLANS WILL BE OBLITERATED!" the specter roared
Despite himself, Arthas immediately twisted out of the frost and sprinted away towards the gates, Halahk close behind. He turned to watch the necromancer's spirit nod and then turn back to the Sunwell where he then disappeared off too.
Both death knights ran as fast as they could, each channeling unholy speed to run just that much faster. But it was not enough. Arthas could feel it when it happened, like reality itself ripping in half. He felt the blast before he saw it, out of the corner of his eyes. He saw as the shadows and light themselves were consumed and drawn behind them.
The Sunwell was a massive outpouring of arcane energy. It was spawned from a vial of purest liquid drawn from the Well of Eternity, the greatest font of power that had ever existed on Azeroth before it's destruction. In truth, the second Well created on a distant continent far away was lesser in its generation of power albeit it possessed far more filtered and cleansing.
That same massive outpouring reversed. In the span of five seconds, everything to the tips of Silvermoon's walls was subjective to forces beyond mortal ken.
Then, a sound that could shatter mountains rang out, and the Sunwell erupted.
Arthas saw Halahk leap in front of him and summon up the mightiest shield of unholy energies he could muster as the world went silent and white. The dark mirror of the paladin spell of divine shield flickered once as the wave of whiteness reached them, the death knight desperate to protect his King.
Then Arthas saw nothing.
0o0o0o0o0o0
"Antonidas. I commend you on escaping Uther, but now you face me. It's over," responded the most powerful servant of the Lich King with an ethereal voice. It bounced and echoed oddly, emphasis on words appearing randomly.
Antonidas looked, and despite himself winced at seeing the condition of the fallen Prince of Lordaeron.
Arthas Menethil's body had seen better days.
Black streaks stretched across his face from the front to the sides, and much of his grey skin had been permanently darkened by his ordeal.
What flesh that remained would carry those streaks for the rest of time. The rest of his body carried…other markers of his ordeal.
The entirety of Arthas's lower jaw, just below his nose, was bare bone that had been charred to permanent blackness. There was not a scrap of flesh, grey or otherwise, as the devastation descended. His neck was gone, the spinal cord uncovered and fully visible; with even some of his collarbone poked through. To make up for this, the glowing blue outline of spirit and magic crafted flesh performed the same function and surrounded the bones. However, that spirit-flesh remained largely translucent, and the bones beneath were still clearly visible.
No eyes remained in scorched eye sockets. The orbs and the flesh of their surroundings no longer existed, burnt beyond recovery even by Frostmourne and the powers of the Scourge. In their place were twin blazes of flickering blue flame. They burned brightly and unceasingly, somehow not further damaging the rest of the skull.
The same spirit-body that covered his lower jaw and had entirely replaced his throat echoed on the crown of his head as well, though this time in the form of spectral strands of hair that glowed faintly blue in the same unholy shade as Frostmourne. The 'hair' itself covered down to the King's shoulders, and even waved in the wind like their organic counterparts would.
The arm that held Frostmourne had been scorched to the bone as well. Dull blue spirit-flesh covered the skeletal arm all the way up to just before the shoulder, yet it gripped Frostmourne as tightly as ever if not more so.
Arthas raised an eyebrow as he watched Antonidas scrutinize his form.
"What? The Lich King provides for all of his servants, I simply received the bonus of wielding the mighty Frostmourne as well. I am restored from that Windrunner bitches treachery, and am stronger than ever!" he stated even as he walked further into the sanctum.
Antonidas coughed again.
"Restored? Boy you look like hell, I'm not afraid to say it," the old man said wearily.
Arthas's jawbone slid about slightly and the spectral flesh displayed the action as a grin.
"Defiant to the end, eh? It matters not. Give me the book old man," he ordered as he approached.
Antonidas squinted at him and then tilted his head backwards to look at the floating tome.
"Can't let you do that Arthas, I refuse to let the Legion into this world," he grunted, even as he forced himself to stand with sheer willpower. Blood poured down out of his stomach and from his mouth but his hand found a hold on the pillar.
Arthas stopped, surprise on his face.
"What are you talking about, Archmage? The Scourge are the ones who-," he began.
"Don't. Patronize me boy. I have been on the Kirin Tor for more than twice your lifetime. I am the Grand Magus of Dalaran. There's no need to be coy," Antonidas said through gritted teeth.
"I'm not stupid. I'd finished reading every book in Dalaran by the time I was thirty, and every book in Silvermoon's library by fifty six. They still hold, held I suppose, a few dusty records of their exodus to the Eastern Kingdoms. I know of the Sundering and what the Burning Legion attempted to do. I also know that this book is one of the few things capable of allowing you lot to summon any of the highest Legion commanders," he continued.
"I normally wouldn't have suspected a thing, one Nathrezim is easy to miss in the chaos of war, especially with a horde of Scourge assaulting the city and given their skills at deception and trickery it would have been a simple thing to not locate one. But…then you monsters had the stupidity to summon four, and then to assault the city with great big groups of the damn demons!" he said with rising volume.
"I deny you, Arthas Menethil, fallen Prince of Lordaeron! You shall never hold the Book of Medivh!" he shouted before coughing out blood.
Arthas stared before he gave a deep belly laugh.
"Oh, oh Antonidas. You stupid man. You're only a few inches away from falling past the doors of death and into the dominion of the Scourge, Uther saw to that. Do you honestly think you can face me?" he asked while still chuckling.
"If you face me now old man, it won't even be a fair fight," he continued.
Antonidas glared at him as he breathed deeply, before touching the book with one hand. He looked at it for a moment, and then before Arthas's eyes straightened fully, his earlier weakness evaporating entirely.
"You're right, of course, but the fact that Uther fought nothing but an illusionary projection and still nearly lost gives me some hope," the Archmage said, his voice steady.
Arthas stared at him, shocked.
"Oh, and this," he said before whispering lightning fast through an incantation.
Before Arthas could react, a blast of magic struck him directly in the chest, flinging him end over end out of the clearing and beyond for a hundred feet. As the death knight rose to his feet, anger obvious in his posture, he watched Antonidas walk forwards easily.
The blood stains that had led Arthas to him dissipated, their job done. The wounds all about the Archmage disappeared, his purple robes no longer torn to shreds. The splinters of his staff scattered around the clearing rose up and swirled in place to reform into pristine condition in the waiting mages hand.
Finally, the Archmage ran a hand through his suddenly fresh and untouched white beard to ensure it was clean. Then he looked up and smiled at the furious death knight.
"Illusion magic. It fell out of practice a few decades ago in favor of the more physical spells like teleporting and explosions. The inanity of youth, I say. Still, it has always been one of my favorites, and though the shield fell days ago it was child's play to keep a display of it functioning," Antonidas said pleasantly as he picked lint out of his robes.
Then his expression saddened.
"I can only hope that those still out there find quick deaths now that I have taken the false shield down," he said with regret.
Arthas snarled, and Antonidas's gaze sharpened as the old man inhaled deeply.
Power flowed from Dalaran then. Magic was drained from the buildings, from collapsed towers, from thousands of crystals and containers. Arthas watched as veritable river of magic from all over Dalaran flowed into the Archmage. Magic was pulled from the cobblestones, from experiments successful and failed, and from behind locked vault doors. Generations of lingering ambient magic swirled and then were funneled into the Grand Magus of Dalaran.
His eyes began to shine with bright multi-colored lights even behind his eyelids, and lightning crackled up and down his body and staff. Decades of age and weariness melted away from the mages frame, and a barrel chest that had fallen by the wayside with age returned. Muscles long since faded flexed and strengthened and the world itself seemed to hold a magnifying glass to that courtyard in Dalaran. A bright purple nimbus of power surrounded Antonidas then, and when he spoke it was not with the voice of the elderly man that had been an adult even before the Second War. It was of a man in his prime, strength in body and magic equal for the first time in years.
"I once wished for the strength to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things that I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Let's see if I got my wish, hmm?" his now powerful voice boomed.
With a crack of hellfire, four more shapes descended onto the battlefield. All four of the dread lords slammed to the earth with the thump of hooves on stone and growls. Demonic strength emanated from each, and their claws unfurled to rend and tear while demonic magic gathered about them. The largest, Anetheron, strode over to Arthas.
"Death knight," he greeted.
"Dread lord," Arthas said back.
"The Book?"
"This is it's last guardian."
"I see. He must die then."
Arthas nodded.
"He must."
Antonidas simply watched the display with a quirk of his lips before slamming the staff into the earth, causing all five of his foes to stumble.
"You see Arthas? Now it's fair."
Then the battle was joined.
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Chapter Eight: Lights in the Distance
The Order of the Black Heart: Part Eight
Lights in the Distance
A Warcraft III AU
"Lok'tar Ogar! For Warchief Thrall!" screamed the orc.
His axe swung hard and cut deep into the centaur's flank, and blood poured from the wound even as the savage horse-man snarled and stabbed downwards with its spear. A slice opened along the grunts shoulder, but the orc paid it no mind beyond some gritted teeth and a growl. His axe drew back and flashed forwards once more; trying to cut at the centaur's chest, but the wily creature leaned back to avoid the blow as it kicked with its fore-limbs.
The grunt went flying back, bones crunching from the force of the blow, but the green skinned warrior was up in an instant, and with a grin ran back into battle.
A line of orcish warriors crashed into the centaur raiders with all the savagery and skill they possessed, which was a deep well to call on indeed. A raider swung about his massive blade with one arm, the other grappling with a centaur, even as his riding wolf snapped at the vulnerable horse flesh below. A head-butt sent the horned helmet askew, but the raider only grinned through cracked teeth and slammed his fore-head into the foe three times in response, dazing the centaur heavily. A kick with one boot sent the wolf rearing up, and as it descended so too did the great blade.
Striding amongst them all was an orc in black plate, a glowing hammer in hand. With a whisper on his lips and an arm thrust to the heavens, a bolt of lightning came crashing down sending multiple horse-men flying, the sudden stink of charred flesh and bone assaulting the air.
"Push them back! They cannot be allowed to prevent us from reaching the summit!" Thrall roared.
Slamming it's way to the front came the mighty Centaur Khan, a monstrously large creature that dwarfed it's lessers. It's crude stone and metal axe swung and decapitated an orc grunt while it's hooves crushed the skull of one of the raiders riding wolves, sending the orc to the ground. The orcs retreated back from its wild and uncontrolled swings, froth pouring from the berserker's mouth. None of the orcs present could face it in size, but while Thrall was already charging another burst of lightning, one who could face it came charging to the fore.
"STAND AND FIGHT BEAST!" shouted an enormous tauren. Though wizened with age, it still carried two enormous totem poles strapped to its back and wielded an enchanted third as an incredibly thick staff. It's charge carried it fully into the Khan, sending the creature sliding back before the two met in a clash of horns, fists, and force.
Eventually, the tauren flung out an elbow into the centaur's jaw, pushing it back just enough to bring it's totem pole around to slam into the creatures stomach, driving the wind out of it. The Khan wheezed and threw up blood as it's ribs were pulverized by the force, but the tauren was not done. Planting it's feet, the pole was slammed to the ground, a shockwave of power visibly crashing into the centaur and sending it to the ground. As the tauren stomped over, the Khan was only able to give one least defiant snarl before it's skull was turned to jelly.
Their leader defeated, the centaur broke, and attempted to flee only to have a score of troll spears and orcish arrows slam into their backs. Only one escaped, albeit heavily wounded. Nodding in satisfaction, the tauren turned to find the cheering orcs parting for their leader.
"Cairne! I thought that you were in Mulgore, though I'll not deny you my deepest thanks for the help!" Thrall said heartily.
"Ah, my son Baine can take care of the construction; put that youthful energy to some use!" Cairne responded with laughter.
"Come my friend, you and the rest of your brethren must be tired after your trip," Thrall said, gesturing into the camp.
It was true, all forty of the tauren that the Bloodhoof Patriarch had brought had been in the battle, and though most had escaped with light wounds they were all tired from the quick march from Mulgore without rest.
"Ah, yes. My old bones ache; let us rest for a bit!" Cairne said with a nod before the tauren entered the basecamp.
As they walked, some of the younger tauren muttered amongst themselves.
"'My old bones ache', what a load of kodo dung. He's the one who pushed the hardest to get here and then he jumps into battle against a Khan?!" one whispered under his breath.
"Obviously. The old bull will never be beaten in a straight up fight, blood crazed Khan or anyone else can match him," boasted his companion.
"Ah, you're just saying that because your Bloodhoof," said the other one dismissively.
The other turned to squint at him.
"Uh huh. Why don't you go tell Cairne to slow down for you, huh?" he said with amusement in his voice.
"Uh. No, I'm good," said the other nervously.
"That's what I thought," the Bloodhoof tauren said with a smirk.
0o0oo0o0o0
"So, tell me Cairne, what could draw you away from building your home?" Thrall asked.The two were sitting in the Great Hall that had been constructed, the warriors who had participated in the battle were either having their wounds tended or were carousing in the barracks. The whole of the Hall had been emptied to make way for the Warchief and his ally.
Cairne leaned back on the sturdy wooden bench that nonetheless groaned under his great bulk and gave a sigh that rattled his nose ring.
"Some outrunner's had caught sight of the centaur coming up the Peak after you, likely in a form of revenge for assisting us in crossing the Barrens. I could not let our debt to your people go unpaid, and so set out to stop them," the tauren replied.
"As we both saw, we did not do so in time, but I'm glad we could assist you before you lost too many," he continued.
"There are casualties to every battle. Sif was Targ's best friend, orc or animal. I doubt that he'll want to take up another wolf to ride with, and Gorok was a fine warrior" Thrall said with a tinge of sadness.
"Ah, indeed. No matter who wins in battle, someone always loses," the tauren said in agreement. One large hand thumped onto the young Warchief's back in reassurance.
Thrall thanked him gratefully, and then the two began to partake of the spread of salted meats and dried fruit along the table. They traded tales, as people were wont to do, until Cairne spoke up.
"Thrall. Your people are much diminished since I last saw them. Did you fight some great battle before I could come?" he asked curiously.
Thrall had been raising a haunch to his mouth that he immediately plopped onto the table. His face grew dark.
"No. We faced no great foe on the battlefield. We faced a foe of the heart and mind….and our people lost," he said.
Cairne cocked his head.
"Mmmm. Those who are not here, they live, but not as a part of the group, huh?" he said thoughtfully while chewing a particularly hard piece of jerky.
Thrall gave a tight nod before replying.
"There are orcs on Kalimdor, Cairne. But no longer are all of them part of the Horde."
Cairne gave an 'ah' of understanding, and the two simply ate in silence for a few moments.
"Thrall, tell me something. On our way here we saw a few encampments of strange…pink skins. Many were clad in metal and possessed weapons of similar make. Should I be worried that the tauren may have a new and strange enemy?"
The Warchief turned to him in surprise and then shook his head vigorously.
"No! No…those are the Alliance, Cairne. They too have come from the east, and while we have a history of conflict and they are almost as skilled at war as the Horde, I believe peace is possible. They likely won't attack indigenous life that does not strike first like the Quilboar or centaur. That is why you saw their camps. Some amongst the Horde felt we should attack them, but as you can see, if we are not the aggressor then it is far less likely for them to attack,-" Thrall began to say before yells of alarm echoed throughout the camp.
"What-," Cairne began to saw before he was pulled out of the Great Hall by Thrall who once more held the Doomhammer high.
"We're under attack!" came the shouts from the watchtowers.
"Mage teleport spell! Shamans and witch doctors to the fore!" shouted the captain of the guard.
Thrall's eyes widened as he saw a massive set of blue rune filled circles continue to cycle until from one blink to the next there was suddenly a group of Alliance standing just outside the barriers of the settlement.
A full dozen knights in shining armor astride their horses were accompanied by a similar dozen dwarven riflemen. However, what truly caught Thrall's eye was the mage in the center, her cloak swirling. In one hand, she held a staff that he could tell was roiling with energy, but in the other-
"STAND DOWN!" he bellowed to the Horde, amplifying his voice with the power of the wind.
The volume startled the knight's, many of whom began to raise their blades, even as many of the Horde stopped to stare at their Warchief in confusion. A troll grabbed the spear it had thrown by the last few inches of the shaft before it could fly into one of the dwarf's skulls, and a shaman lowered his arms, the lightning crackling in them fizzling out.
"Stand down soldiers!" came the voice of the human mage.
The two groups stared at one another, many tightening their grips on their weapons. Several caught their counterpart's eyes, sizing them up. A warhorse neighed and pawed at the ground as across the way a dire wolf growled before being quieted by its raider. The riders of both animals watched the other with narrowed eyes.
"Warchief Thrall?" came the mage again.
Thrall approached, pushing warriors aside.
"You are very lucky that I saw the white flag you carry, human. We have left your people in peace, can you not do the same?" he asked.
He had pushed his people to not touch the humans and had dearly hoped they would reciprocate. But if they didn't….he gripped the Doomhammer just a bit harder than usual.
"Exactly, Warchief. I'm here to talk about peace, nothing more, nothing less," the woman said.
Thrall snorted.
"Bringing in a formation of knights and riflemen does not speak highly of that sort of talk, human," he said with a cocked eyebrow.
"Would your warriors allow you to go to a camp filled with potential enemies without guards?" she replied.
Thrall narrowed his eyes, before he nodded.
"They would not. Though your use of the word potential gives me a small amount of hope, I cannot help but doubt your intentions human. I have been burned many times by the Alliance before," he said.
Some of the knights were shifted aside despite their protests, revealing the human mage fully. She swept the hood off her head and faced him down without flinching. Thrall could respect that.
"My name is Jaina Proudmoore, and I assure you that my intentions in coming here are completely non-violent," she said.
Thrall looked at her and the gleaming blades still unsheathed in her guards hands. Then he looked over to where multiple grunts still held their axes, trolls held their spears ready to throw, and even Cairne and the tauren who had never spoken to the humans before had placed their totem poles onto their shoulders ready to swing.
"We shall see if they stay that way. You may take half your guard with you to the Great Hall, the other half will remain outside," he said.
Prove it, human. Prove it. If you can't believe we are capable of peace then you wouldn't agree, to desperate to keep your warriors by your side.
Thrall did not voice his thoughts, but as the Alliance turned to furiously discuss amongst themselves, he could taste how the tension grew. He knew that many were expecting the mage to refuse, and why shouldn't she? She would be surrounded by the Horde on all sides, the Warchief himself would be within striking range with the Doomhammer and-
"I agree. I'll even do you one better, I'll come alone," Jaina called out.
Thrall stared at her, as did the rest of the Horde defenders. What?
"What?" he asked; stupefied.
"You heard me. I'll come alone, none of the others will even go inside the camp," she replied. Several of the knights made to protest but were shushed by a wave of her hand.
She then took off her cloak, and placed it and her staff into the hands of one of the knights. Slowly, she began to walk into the camp, under the eyes of the Horde. They watched, silently, as Thrall led her to the Great Hall. Bow strings were pulled and then relaxed several times, until the doors closed. Then, they turned to glare at the remaining Alliance troops, who glared right back.
As those doors closed, both Jaina and Thrall would think the exact same thing.
I hope I'm not making a mistake.
0o0o0o0o0
"People! Of! Gnomeregan!" echoed out a voice amplified by massive speakers.Great and complex machines filled the city and streets, made as they were of gleaming metals and plastics. However, the words reached every single gnome in in the city, many of whom were located in the large open city center.
"I, High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, give you the Head General of the 1st National Gnomeregan Army…my best friend….SICCO THERMAPLUGG!!"
Cheering echoed out across the city, the small people clapping and whooping wildly. Sicco was one of the most well-known gnomes in the city, and his time as advisor to his friend Gelbin had been extremely well spent. Incredible machines of all kinds whirred to life as they marched to the first war that the gnomes had partaken in for years.
It was the world's first robot army, accompanied by a healthy amount of organic support staff.
High above the marching forces on a large metal platform, two gnomes conferred after the announcement.
"G-Gelbin, this is, this-this-this isn't, I mean, I'm just-I," Sicco stammered out.
Gelbin smacked his friend on the shoulder.
"Ah c'mon Sicco, this is what you've always wanted! Glory and the chance to show the world the power of the gnomes! Where better to do it than against the Scourge?!" Gelbin said.
"Well yes, g-glory to Gnomeregan and to the gnomish people I-I just had other plans a-and-," Sicco tried to say before Gelbin smacked him on the shoulder again.
"Hey, c'mon Sicco, I trust that of all the people in the city, you'll get it done. I believe in you, ok?"
"I-I," Sicco sighed, "Ok."
Such was the mechanized speed of the gnomish machines that they were off within the hour, heading to the Wetlands to try and keep the Scourge from getting over the Thandol Span. Gelbin only hoped it would be enough.
"High Tinker! High Tinker!" came the squeaking voice of one of his younger assistants.
Gelbin turned with a smile on his face. The day was beautiful. The gnomes were able to contribute to the Scourge fight; he had at least seventeen ideas for brand new inventions and forty three hundred improvements for already existing ones.
"Yes, what is it?" he asked. His mood changed to concern at the fear on the assistants face.
"Look! Deep scans picked up these tunneling creatures a few hours ago; they'll breach Gnomeregan in less than a month!"
Gelbin blanched and scanned over the results again and again. Then he looked up, startling the assistant with the inner fire that blazed within his eyes.
"They may breach, but they sure won't like what they find I'll promise you that. I'm not calling back Sicco; we can deal with these things ourselves, they look preposterously primitive. Call up everyone," he said walking away with his shoulders firmly set.
"E-everyone?" she called out confusedly.
"EVERYONE!" he called back over his shoulder.
Chapter Nine: The Spark of a Flame
The Order of the Black Heart: Part Nine
The Spark of a Flame
A Warcraft III AU
The ruins of Dalaran still burned brightly.The Spark of a Flame
A Warcraft III AU
It's living inhabitants all either dead or escaped; the only noises left in the city were that of flames and the steady march of the Scourge. Occasionally, a building would collapse from sustained structural damage from the past series of artificially induced earthquakes.
Chasms and uneven rises and falls of earth caused by the last quake were everywhere, and in some places buildings would simply slide down into the darkness. Heedless of this, the Scourge tirelessly went about its grisly work. Ghouls and geists trawled through the streets, gathering bodies. The Cult of the Damned, now heavily reinforced from Pyrewood of Silverpine and Southshore of Hillsbrad, watched over the fleet of meat wagons that followed close behind.
In several district squares, great mounds of bodies, defender or Scourge, were piled in vast quantities until they began to sag and collapse under their own weight. In these squares were groups of men and women who channeled sickly green and black magic's in great quantities. Slowly, ever so slowly, the bodies would twitch, growl, and moan as they were drawn into the service of the Scourge. Tens of thousands of bodies from the defenders of Dalaran alone, much less the salvageable forces of the Scourge that had fallen in the taking of the city, began to rise, unholy magic powering their movements.
In a commandeered room in one the few remaining buildings with structural integrity, Lord Uther, head of the Order of the Black Heart, oversaw these dozens of simultaneous 'recruitment' efforts with a level of precision and organization that would have made lesser men boggle. Normally he would have relegated this task to some of the higher placed Cult members, but for the moment he sat at a desk listening to reports. Others would have questioned this, but Uther had been swaddled in thick bandages since his encounter with Antonidas, his head alone nearly possessing a turban of the things. Instead of the customary black armor of death knights, he was currently wearing a set of billowing grey robes.
Most had finished their reports, and now there were only two individuals who had yet to speak.
"The raising of the Mage's Guild goes well. We have added a good three thousand skeleton mages to the might of the Scourge," said the necromancer eagerly.
Uther gave an unhappy shake of his head.
"Only three thousand and skeletons at that?" he asked disapprovingly.
"Apologies my lord, but, the Mage's Guild faced the full brunt of the dread lords assault while you attacked the Sorcerer's League. You, of course were able to direct our warriors most efficiently to leave bodies largely intact, but the demons seemed to delight far too much in incineration," the necromancer replied.
Uther's lip curled, and despite the pain wrought upon him at the hands of Antonidas, the Cult members stepped back as one.
"Heighan, I will say this but once. You will not speak ill of your commanders, demon or otherwise, am I understood?" he said harshly to the rapidly paling necromancer.
"Y-yes Lord Uther!" he stammered out before the last necromancer stepped forward with an almost arrogant swagger.
"The Sorcerer's Guild now serves the Scourge in its entirety, flesh based magic users make up the majority and there is but a small complement of skeletal warriors to accompany. Beyond that, I went ahead and worked on the Dalaran garrison and all of its knights and footmen. I give you, my lord Uther, a full thirty thousand soldiers for the Scourge," he said with a smirk.
Uther gave a laugh before nodding approvingly. Then he looked out amongst the other chastised looking necromancers.
"Ah, good, now here's a man I can rely on to get things done! Look to Gothik as an example, people!"
Gothik practically preened, though in the background many looked at him with jealous eyes. Uther looked at him, calculating with his eyes, before seeming to come to a decision.
"Gothik the Harvester, you have proven yourself time and again to be the most skilled at raising the dead out of all your compatriots. As such, for proving yourself, I have a special task for you. The rest of you, leave, and return to your work."
Interest burned in the Harvesters mind as he came closer, even as the others began to filter out. Uther called out just before they all left however.
"Heighan! I expect the rest of the Mage's Guild to be raised within the day!" he said.
"Yes Lord Uther, it will be done!" Heighan replied before hurrying off.
With the door closed, Uther scooted out from the table before the widening Gothik's eyes.
"M-my Lord! I had heard that-," Gothik began.
"Yes, it is true that I suffered severely at the hands of Antonidas's construct, but I am not so injured as to stand. It comes from being personally raised into service at the power of Frostmourne and Arthas," Uther said.
"Incredible…" Gothik whispered.
"Indeed," Uther said before he moved to a window, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Tell me, Gothik; are you loyal to Lordaeron?" Uther said quietly.
"Absolutely my lord, I have devoted my every moment to the Scourge and King Arthas-" Gothik began.
"No, Gothik, I did not ask of the Scourge. I asked if you were loyal to Lordaeron," Uther interrupted.
Gothik stared at him in confusion.
"I-I don't…my Lord, what are you talking about?" he said.
"You were one of the greatest court wizards in Lordaeron, were you not?" Uther pressed.
"I was….Lord Uther that was how we met years ago!" Gothik said.
"Indeed. So, I ask again. Are you loyal to Lordaeron still? You are not yet dead, though you have taken its appearance," Uther said, still gazing out the window at the burning city.
His hands unclasped and unsheathed the blade he had recovered from Quel'Thalas, the blade of the Sunstrider king. It gleamed in the dark of the room. Then, Uther's gaze turned towards the blades edges in contemplation.
"My lord Uther….Lordaeron and the Scourge are one in the same? Lord Arthas is King of Lordaeron, and the kingdom serves him in death as do we all," Gothik said, confusion still evident.
Uther turned to look at him, and then sighed. Both hands slowly rose to his head, and carefully begun unwrapping the bandages about his head. Slowly, before the necromancer's eyes, they fell away. Gothik's eyes widened as he stared at the circlet of gemstones resting proudly on Uther's head. He blinked, swaying slightly at the almost hypnotic effect that the circlet produced.
"Do you know what this is?" Uther asked quietly. He walked closer until he and Gothik were only a few feet apart.
"I…I don't," Gothik started.
"It is a powerful artifact. It was given to me by a brave man, who I suspect is dead now or will be soon." Uther said.
"My lord? I don't understand, you said you had a task for me, and-hlkk!" Gothik stared at the blade as it impaled his stomach.
Enchanted with supernatural sharpness, the blade slid upwards like butter through his stomach and upwards into his chest.
"This artifact has a name, Gothik," Uther said, his voice a soft whisper.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
1 Hour Before the Re-Awakening of Arthas"Come, Antonidas, face the might of the Black Heart and the Scourge!" Uther called out.
His blade slashed back and forth, cutting down the soldiers trying to stop him. Up ahead, Antonidas unleashed flame and fury upon Uther's soldiers, blasting apart sections of the street and buildings to send rubble cascading onto their heads.
Though he dearly missed his warhammer, Felo'melorn provided an able substitute. The double-edged warblade sliced deep into a knight's shoulder, cutting down into the soldier's lungs before being withdrawn. Both the knight and his horse fell, the knight clutching his shoulder and the horse being devoured by ghouls.
"Come over here then, Uther! We shall see what we shall see!" Antonidas called back.
Uther snarled, and the death knight thrust a blast of unholy energy to crash into another knight, killing the man instantly. He ran forward and vaulted the still rearing horse before catching its head with Felo'melorn in a backhanded strike and continued forwards.
The soldiers of Dalaran were exceptionally skilled. They had to be, to prove and continually protect a city of mages without being laughed out, and as such each one of the Dalaran's non-magical warriors were leagues above the common soldier simply to be able to stand next to men and women who could summon thunderstorms with a snap.
The soldiers of Dalaran were wheat, and Uther was a harvesting scythe.
Thirty men and women died in three times that many seconds, shields, swords, and armor cut in twain with sheer strength alone. Those that managed to survive the initial onslaught were then destroyed under the might of the blades enchantments.
Covered in multiple layers of blood and gore, Uther wrapped his arm underneath a horse and then grunted as he lifted up the equine beast and it's rider before throwing them bodily behind him to land at the feet of the Scourge soldiers that had followed his inexorable advance. There was a crash as the knight landed, and but to his credit the human gave a valiant defense against the more than hundred to one odds.
But Uther gave the knight's last cry of defiance no thought as he faced the last major commander of Dalaran's forces magical or otherwise.
The screaming returned, this time louder than ever, and despite Uther's best efforts he could not banish it from his mind. Instead, he simply grit is teeth and bore it.
"Antonidas! Surrender or fall here and now!" he called out.
The elderly Archmage looked down at him from his white steed, a look of sadness on his face before shaking his head.
"Ah, Uther. What have the Scourge done to you? I cannot surrender to you, Lightbringer," he said wearily.
Uther's face twisted into a grimace.
"Do not call me that, old one. The Lightbringer fell with the rest of the Silver Hand," the death knight stated darkly.
Slowly the two began to circle in the streets. Antonidas's staff crackled with energy, and around the blade of Felo'melorn burst a corona of flame. Behind them, the rest of the Scourge had finished off the remaining fighters, yet at a gesture from the death knight they held back.
The moment broke, and Uther charged. Dark magic splashed against a hastily erected shield even as the steed's hooves nearly took off Uther's head. The two clashed, again and again, neither finding a way past the others defenses. Unfortunately for the Grand Magus, Uther would never tire.
Antonidas's chest rose and fell like forge bellows, and sweat beaded heavily down his head. Uther remained unwavering. The Scourge growled and moaned, their eyes locked onto the Archmage. The old man looked to them and back at Uther, knowing full well that if the death knight fell they would swarm over him.
"You cannot defeat the Scourge, Antonidas. King Arthas," Uther flinched as the screaming grew louder and stumbled before he managed to keep speaking, "King Arthas will lead us to victory above all!" he managed to finish.
"Humph!" scoffed Antonidas before he raised his staff.
Light burst out, forcing Uther to cover his eyes. The light illuminated the Magus from within, his eyes glowing with great scrutiny as they swept over the fallen paladin. Uther gave out a cry of alarm as ribbons of magic, dozens of them, swept over his body. A sweep of Antonidas's hand and a great wall of flame engulfed the remaining Scourge soldiers, leaving the two alone.
Uther struggled mightily, but even as he gnashed his teeth and flexed his empowered muscles, he could not escape. He growled as Antonidas came closer, but his eyes widened as the steed disappeared into nothingness. As he watched, the Grand Magus began to flicker himself.
Noticing Uther's look, Antonidas gave him a sad smile.
"The magic powering this projection is fading," he explained.
"What!?" Uther managed to in fury say even as the magical bindings grew tighter.
He had been duped! It was a magical construct, not the real Antonidas! The death knight's tactical mind began to spin as it attempted to figure out where the Magus could be. But then the time for thought was over as the false mage approached.
"I had to sacrifice a lot of different plans to empower this projection enough to draw you out, Uther. I highly doubt that I'll make it out of the city now not to mention the price of life that these men bought," the projection said with regret.
"But, I simply had too. You'll have to forgive an old man's sentimentality, but I saw this chance, and decided to take it," it continued.
Uther, now unable to move any of his limbs at all and his mouth covered simply glared. The screaming was unbearable, but so was the rambling of the old mage.
"Tell me, Lightbringer," it said, ignoring Uther's growl at the name, "do you know what I've discovered in my studies? Though the situation was less than optimal, it would not be a boast to say that I am one of the best researchers on the Kirin Tor," the projection began to circle Uther as it said this.
"I've discovered how truly terrifying the domination of the Scourge is," and at this Uther gave a fierce grin, "but at the same time, I've also discovered that with the right tools, it can be beaten," and so Uther gave a defiant shake of his head.
The projection did a fine imitation of Antonidas ruefully shaking his head at a particularly dim student.
"What, did you not notice as some of the lesser death knights were pulled out from under the Scourge's control? Of course you didn't that's the thing," it said.
Uther matched the screaming in his ears with his own, gagged as he was by the bindings. He struggled, as the projection came closer and pulled something out of a bag, the only thing not flickering in and out wildly at this point. It was some sort of circlet, but then the projection walked behind him. He felt a something be pushed into one of his pockets, but paid it no mind as he continued to fight.
"This is a wondrous creation, made a long time ago by a High Elf. I…suppose that it's one of the last remnants of their civilization," it mumbled in his ear.
Then, the circlet went about his head.
"It's called the-," but then it was cut off by the death knight.
Uther. Screamed. Pain unending blinded his senses to all, and
Light damn you! You. Are. Not. UTHER!
Struggling, Uther summoned all the power given unto him by the King but
The boy is not King, he never has been, and he never will be!
Faith kept Uther from crumbling entirely, faith in Frostmourne and Arthas
NO! I WILL SUFFER NO LONGER UNDERNEATH HIS CHAINS!
Vengeance would be his! Antonidas would suffer as none other when he
You will do no such thing. You are naught but an amalgamation of a foolish boy's wishes for a DOG!
Like a cork popping out of a bottle, there was a crack in a dark prison that had been built around a noble soul. From it came a furious presence, burning with enough light to be a star. It blasted through chains and bindings that had kept its mind and soul buried, and incinerated them. Compulsions to break a million men's minds were confronted, crushed, and passed. All these unnatural intruders were destroyed like vermin under boot.
The totality of all these things and more had culminated in a blasted cage of twisted black steel, unholy magics, and a coffin of chains made of frost from the depths of Icecrown. The framework, this created mind, struggled and gnashed, but even it could not withstand what it faced from within.
The fading projection watched as the magical bindings holding the man was obliterated, but not by the power of a death knight.
But by blinding Light.
Uther Lightbringer roared. The blade that taken from the corpse of a people was flung away. The black armor surrounding his body was ripped off by hand. One hand gripped around a pauldron with enough force to bend it, and tore it away. The chain mail underneath was bunched up before being ripped, the links scattering to the ground like rain.
He screamed, rage and grief and self-loathing all mixed into one, and screamed as he nearly tore his own body apart. Greaves were thrown like skipping stones down the street, and the rotting Scourge tabard was ripped to shreds. Another blast of the Light came, enveloping his body, forcing the projection to look away.
The Light faded, and found Uther on his hands and knees, hot and fresh tears pouring down his face. There was a clattering as someone picked the blade he had thrown up, but he did not look. He felt the fading projection stand in front of him.
"Why? How?" he whispered, pleading, a gulf of pain in his voice.
"This projections time is done, and I must prepare for what comes next. But worry not Uther, these two will help you."
With that, the spell finally ran its course, and there were only three people left on the square.
After a long moment, Uther staring at the ground, he looked up.
A man stood there, his fiery red hair covered in soot, his purple Kirin Tor robes filled with patches and rips. Next to him was a woman, who before Uther's eyes took off her deep hood to reveal a set of long pointed ears. She held a bow and kept her eyes scanning the rooftops, but the man merely gave him his hand, pulling Uther to his feet.
"The only reason I'm not turning you into a little crisp is because of Antonidas," the man said seriously.
He looked at Uther, but then snorted at the sheer dazed look on the man's face.
"Right. We've got a lot of things to do and not a lot of time to do it. The old man will give us some breathing space, but we've got to start now. Vereesa, is anyone coming?" the mage asked. At the curt shake of the elf woman's head, he nodded.
The two began to move, but paused and looked back at Uther as he stared at his hands, turning them over and looking at his body. A fist formed, and a faint warm glow of Light enveloped it. Uther inhaled deeply even as a fresh wave of tears fell down, and the smallest ghost of a smile passed his lips. Then he looked up at his would-be guides.
"What…what," he tried to say. The mage looked at him and then said 'ah'.
"He didn't tell you, right. That thing? The thing that just brought you your salvation? It's called-
0o0oo0o00
"It's called the Crown of Will," Uther snarled as he twisted the blade upwards to bisect Gothik's skull.As it traveled upwards, the blade ignited, searing flesh and bone as it moved. Gothik didn't even have the chance to scream before the blade exited his body, and within moments the magical flames that engulfed his body had turned it to ash.
Uther stared at those ashes before opening a window, the wind carrying the ashes away. In the center of the room a set of blue circles cycled and spat out five people. Uther didn't turn to look; instead he clenched a fist, the small glow of light giving him a breath of relief once more.
"It's done?" the mage asked.
Uther turned then.
"Yes Rhonin. The greatest necromancer of the Scourge besides the Lich King and Arthas himself is gone. Now, let us leave this place."
Rhonin nodded.
"Yes, let's. Antonidas has been keeping them distracted for a day now, but he won't last forever. We've grabbed as much as we can."
A circle of blue rings filled the office, and whisked away the first and greatest of the Order of the Black Heart.
0o0o0o0o0o0
In the far distance, a massive magical explosion flattened three blocks, and a demon roared before being abruptly cut off.
0o0o0o0o0
Varimathas crawled. He could not fly, because he no longer had wings, he could not run, because he had no legs. Blood poured from where his wings had been ripped from him, but the cattle had seared his legs and thusly the wounds themselves shut. It had not been a comfort. His claws sank into the stone and earth as he pulled himself forwards, forwards and away from the cattle.
"No, not cattle. A monster, a monster!" he whispered to himself, mania in his voice.
One of his pupils had shrunk down to a dot, while the other had dilated to more than five times its original size. Over a dozen holes that passed straight through his body let out a steady dribbling steam of green blood that sizzled as it touched the ground. His arm extended once more, and pulled him another foot. He wheezed, cracked and pained bones protesting within his body as he went.
"Both of them, gone. Just like that! Poof!" he mumbled.
He tried something he'd been attempting to do for the past hour, and then screamed in pain.
The dread lords body had begun to fade away, bones and blood turning to shadow as the body returned to the relative safety of the Twisting Nether…before a crackle of electricity shimmered about his body and halted the procedure.
"Graaagh!" the demon grunted weakly.
There was a thump on the stones behind him, and the dread lord twisted in fear.
"No…no! What are you!?!" he shrieked.
The monster answered.
"My name is Antonidas, Grand Magus of Dalaran, Member of the Council of Six, and proud mage of the Kirin Tor. You, on the other hand, are a demon who along with your brothers has been suffering under a custom spell I designed 36 hours ago. I have not yet come up with a name for it, but the tactical description shall suffice. All four of you demons have been suffering from a Class-14 Inverted Banishment and Containment Bastion-Binding of the Seventh Degree. It might not really mean anything to you, so I will summarize," the man said with a feral grin.
"You won't be leaving until you've suffered true death."
The staff came down then, a spade of flames surrounding the bottom, and impaled Varimathas through the heart. The demon's final words were a simple wheeze, and then it was dead.
Antonidas sighed, and looked down at his hand. The past twenty six hours had been the best he'd felt in years, but as with all things…temporary. The power he had consumed was not meant to be held, only released, but even the act of doing so was causing grievous harm to him, and by the time it was spent, there was no doubt in the Archmage's mind that he would be dead from the strain alone if nothing else.
Already, his gloriously young flesh…was aging. He waved a hand and silently teleported away back to the clearing that he had left some twenty six hours ago. Passing by a pool of water created by smashed containers, he looked on forlornly as white streaks began to grow in his beard, faster and faster. Wrinkles appeared across his face, and he even tripped as an old twinge in his hips returned.
He could feel them now, their presences approaching. Unfortunately, his greatly expanded senses were rapidly atrophying with everything else, and so he stopped expending the energy to use them.
Over the course of twenty strides he went from a full bodied walk to a hobble, leaning heavily on his staff. Aches and pains were returning across his frame, and bones grew weaker while muscles grew slack and then disappeared. His skin began to sag, and his face drooped as decades of life came back to stay.
By the time he had reached the center of the clearing, the Book of Medivh floating untouched above the pedestal, he was gasping for air as his newly weak lungs struggled alongside his feebly beating heart.
"Well…it was fun while it lasted," he said in a quiet rasp.
Rough breathing caught his attention and he turned to see the dread lord Anetheron seething with fury, rage barely contained in his eyes. One of his wings was crushed as if from a great force, and both horns had been heavily chipped and broken. A hand laid itself along the stomach to staunch the green blood that bubbled from beneath his fingers. The demon stepped forward, favoring its left leg, the right limply dragged along.
Behind the demon came Arthas, looking far less injured though a large amount of his armor had been destroyed, revealing that the bottom left half of his torso had been scorched black from the Sunwell alongside his jaw, glimmering spirit-flesh covering it. The twin blazes that made up the death knights eyes had shrunken to points and the squeezing force he displayed on Frostmourne would have broken the fingers of an ogre.
He turned to face them then, and then realized abruptly that he was dying. His magic reserves had been overloaded and then removed, the only thing allowing the great feats he had performed being the battery of power he'd drawn from across the city. But still, his eyesight grew dim, and already he could hear his heart beating slower and slower.
"It….is….over…mage!" Anetheron growled. He dragged himself ever closer.
"I can feel death claiming you, mage. You cannot stop us from taking the book now." Arthas said. His ethereal voice came as if from far off, the magic allowing him to speak quavering from the exhaustion of fighting the Grand Magus for a day.
They all knew it was true. Antonidas blinked the growing darkness from his eyes, even as a hand rose to his heart to feel it go silent. Arthas leaned forward in anticipation while Anetheron bared his teeth in glee.
Yet, Antonidas still had a small time longer. His lips trembled as he smiled.
"I cannot. That…is because I already did." He whispered.
He fell then, legs unable to hold him up any longer.
"What?" Arthas said, halting alongside the bewildered Anetheron.
Antonidas's lips moved once more, but the air pushed through was loud enough for only himself to hear.
"I always loved illusion magic."
Antonidas, Grand Magus of Dalaran, unspoken 'King of the Kirin Tor', mentor of some of the most powerful prodigies ever produced, died. His body wasted away, further and further, until the after-effect of his dangerous last gambit became apparent.
The body of Antonidas disintegrated, leaving nothing but air.
With him went centuries of knowledge and magical progress that had been achieved in decades, a brassy sense of humor, and a caring grandfather figure for those he mentored. The most powerful mage of four generations went down after fighting foes that had seen the ends of dozens of worlds save Arthas Menethil, and after having ended three of them permanently. He had also contributed to saving a full third of the Dalaran population, among them members of the Council of Six. It was a more than worthy life he had led, and an impressive death he'd had as well.
But there was one more thing that went with him when he died.
The last enchantment that Antonidas had ever cast.
The illusion of the Book of Medivh dipped in the air once, twice, and then flickered out of existence.
"What?!" Anetheron roared.
"WHAT!?" Arthas thundered.
0o0o0o0
"ANTONIDAS!!!"
Miles away, a mage swore he could hear something before being hushed by his elven lover. His hair had been further damaged and he had a bandage along his arm, and even through his concussion, Rhonin remained awake. He didn't know why, but he grinned to himself, and only then allowed the healing spell to take him into blissful unconsciousness.
As he drifted off to sleep, he could swear he could hear the boisterous laughter of an old, but satisfied, man.
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Chapter Ten: Changing Paradigm
TThe Order of the Black Heart: Part Ten
Changing Paradigm
A Warcraft III AU
The Twisting Nether is a place of terrible chaos and almost mindless destruction. It is a place of terrible creatures and beings that delight only in death and destruction. It is here that the twisted and uncountable demons of the planet ravagers known as the Burning Legion found its genesis, and here that the many races that made it up spawned from. They all served the will of their lords, and it was at their behest that all worlds in existence were to be put to the torch.Changing Paradigm
A Warcraft III AU
It was here that two eredar of immeasurable power and cruelty confronted each other, wielding power enough in their fingertips to blast cities to dust. They roared, boasted, and clashed, again and again without finding a lasting blow. While one possessed the far greater physical power, its counterpart wielded a far vaster repertoire of the arcane, and displayed this over and over as bolts of pure death flew in their dozens in sizes enough to blast holes into mountains.
These two giants stomped their way across a world whose name had been lost to the flame, long dead rock and earth churned and broken by immense hooves that crushed all beneath them even while the tattered remnants of the atmosphere was ripped asunder from the power being thrown about. Vast red wings lifted one up as hands to cradle hillocks slammed together to create a shockwave of force that crushed down to force the other left upon the ground a dozen miles into the planet's already weakened crust.
A roar erupted from the hole and liquid green flames poured forth and engulfed the flier, who suffered for only an instant before teleporting away. Singed flesh glowed hotly, but with eyes full of fury the victim stretched arms back and then flung them forth, creating a column of roiling black shadow that billowed forth just as it's target crawled from the crater. It grew and surrounded the eredar, which roared and flailed as it fell to the ground.
Massive chains over thirty feet thick made of pure fel magic ripped from the flying combatant's fingers and dove to the earth with a thunderous crash before snaking around and tightening around the giant that still rolled about the ground. Blue flesh turned black and rotted off before with another bellow of rage the chained one strained and broke the spell, sending fragments crashing up to a mile away. A black ball was engulfed in green flames before being tossed upwards to slam into the wings of the flyer, that upon impact erupting in an explosion that blew all clouds in the surrounding hundred miles apart.
With a cry of pain, the red creature crashed to the ground, crashing down and sending up a dust cloud that reached the atmosphere.
If there had been any life on the planet, such an event would have engulfed the world in a terrible ice age that would have killed it all within two centuries.
A great leap brought the blue skinned goliath's hooves onto its counterpart's chest, caving it in slightly and forcing a cough of blood to erupt outwards. Following this, they stomped once more before adjusting as the prone eredar began to suffer under a merciless barrage of fists against its skull and upraised arms. Blows rained down as both yelled with rage and pain from their various injuries even as they began to heal almost instantly.
Finally, the raging eredar lifted both hands above, clasped them, and brought them down to pulverize the red giant's head, creating a massive splash of green blood and bone. Straightening, it screamed its victory to the blackened sky before a thousand blades stabbed through it from behind all across its body. As they withdrew, the giant fell, managing to turn enough to see who had injured it so grievously.
With a smirk, the flying giant withdrew the magical blades before dismissing them, utterly uninjured and standing four hundred feet away. The smirk ended when a boulder went crashing into its face before it could stop it. When the debris fell away, the eredar growled in annoyance but widened its eyes as a great fist came across its jaw, sending it slamming to the earth once more. The wingless giant snarled above it even as its wounds closed, and then leapt upon its enemy.
The two had fought in this manner for a week, their battle carrying them across over a dozen dead worlds, each being left as the damage grew too great for those places to remain intact. Eventually however, the two pulled back, their breathing only slightly heavier than normal being the only sign that they had just expended enough energy to destroy a civilization several times over.
"ENOUGH!" said one, "You cannot challenge me on this Kil'jaeden, I am the commander of the Legion's armies! My decision is final!"
"Archimonde, the Nathrezim are still fully capable of-," Kil'jaeden began.
"OF FAILURE! The summoner: prevented from gaining a body, the Book: lost! They will not receive another chance to fail again! Azeroth will fall, but it is clear now that the time for illusions and trickery is over!" Archimonde roared.
"The failure of the Nathrezim nearly ended our efforts before they truly began! I ought to eradicate their entire race for their idiocy!" he continued.
Kil'jaeden snarled.
"You. Will. Do. No. Such. Thing. The Nathrezim have failed, this is true, but I will not see my agents destroyed for the failures of a few," he said coldly, power visibly growing about him.
Archimonde's fists curled in response.
"One of those failures cost me Mannoroth!" he bellowed.
The two nearly came to blows once more before all of the emotion on Kil'jaeden's face drained as he visible forced himself to calm. Of the two, he had always possessed the greater self-control. The eredar breathed deeply of the dead air, and then turned away.
"Very well, Archimonde. We shall see if the Annihilan can prove more able commanders than the dread lords. Now," he said, turning his head slightly to look at Archimonde, "I will deal with Anetheron as I see fit."
With that, Kil'jaeden was surrounded by shadows and teleported away leaving Archimonde to seethe alone.
"If Azgalor cannot prove worthy of being Mannoroth's successor, he will suffer worse than the Destructor did before his death," Archimonde hissed before he too was swallowed by Twisting Nether.
Minutes later, the world that had suffered under what really only amounted to a minor argument between the Lords of the Burning Legion began to crumble apart as its tortured crust cracked into pieces.
0o0o0o0o0o0
Halfway up Stonetalon Peak, there was a very large camp. Its fires burned brightly as watchtowers kept an eye on the strange land and its many vicious inhabitants. Though the centaur had been fought off a week ago due to the actions of the Bloodhoof Patriarch Cairne, the settlement was consistently being raided by the hordes of Quilboar that inhabited the continent of Kalimdor.
Structures made of wood, stone, and bone all expanded outwards from the largest building present, the Great Hall. Within its doors sat and feasted the warriors of the mighty Horde. Five gargantuan tables stretched from one end to another, food and drink piled high, and it was at these that they all sat. Orc's boasted and laughed amongst chuckling trolls, all the while the larger tauren demonstrated strange games played with carved bones and rocks.
Above these was a single table that sat only three occupants, yet was given great deference and respect by the rest of the inhabitants of the building save for the third. Said third scanned her eyes across the dozens of spears and axes that were within hands reach of numerous warriors, but as her grip tightened slightly around her staff she managed to relax. Slightly.
"I did not say so before, but I am very grateful to finally have friendly face amongst the indigenous population Sir Cairne.""Sir Cairne? A strange way to speak, pink-skin. You may simply call me Cairne, Clan Chieftain if you must be so formal," the tauren replied as he squinted at the speaker.
Several years of training ensured that Jaina Proudmoore's cheeks did not grow flush in embarrassment. At the same time, those years of training were proving to be a great source of frustration to the young mage. So many classes and debates that had stretched long into the night…were consistently proving useless over one simple fact.
The Horde was not the Alliance.
It had taken only a day for this lesson to become apparent, but a week to realize what it truly meant. Techniques to put another at ease, to turn a conversation towards one's own benefit without making it seem as such, to calm and persuade, all useless! That was not to say these things did not happen or were not required in their own way at the table, but the main issue that had been proving an immovable roadblock between Jaina's people and the Horde's was that things were simply different.
The two cultures were not incompatible in their totality, but the difference between what you had to do to solve disagreements and negotiate was rather extreme to her mind.
Two Alliance nations would debate for weeks or months that could stretch into years to finally agree to a treaty. That treaty would then be printed upon the finest vellum or parchment by a highly paid and trained scribe with ink enchanted for permanence and then brought to both leaders to sign with their respective stamps before being carefully copied and stored in each other's archives. Such an agreement would potentially last for generations long after those who had originally agreed to it had passed on, and would be looked to with respect.
The Horde in comparison would have a ceremony, a week long a most, that would culminate with the chieftains cutting each other's palms and shaking on it while swearing oaths of mutual defense or whatever it was that was being agreed to then leaving. Yet, and Jaina was still wrapping her head around this, the significance of this event held the exact same power over both groups as the Alliance counterpart.
"I apologize then Cairne, I meant no offense," Jaina responded hastily.
To her befuddlement, the tauren laughed before biting at another set of ribs, followed by the wiry jungle troll that shared the table. Both continued to eat and drink at a far more ravenous pace than the human, though she too enjoyed the fantastically prepared meats and cheeses. It was just that Cairne and the troll she had been introduced to as Vol'Jin must have been hungrier than her.
"Offended? Hah! You cannot offend me by trying to be respectful young one, the effort alone is worthy of my respect! Too many younglings go along without even trying to give elder's the reverence they deserve, and then act surprised when we knock them off their feet," Cairne laughed.
"Simply because something is strange and new does not mean that it is foolish to try and understand it. You have done your best, surrounded in a camp of from what you and Thrall have told me, ancestral enemies." he continued, waving one hand out to encompass the raucous laughing crowd below.
The humor in the tauren's face faded as it was replaced with quiet kindness. He patted one of Jaina's hands with his larger one before withdrawing it.
"Such a thing would never occur between the tauren and centaur, but, as I said, new and strange. I think that peace is a definite possibility between your peoples, if only you can come to understand each other's ways without deriding them as meaningless," Cairne said with gentleness.
"It's a paradox, I know. You cannot understand one another without understanding that you are different, but the next step, I think, is accepting that and still moving forwards. Concessions, bargains and the like," he continued.
His eyes drifted down to look at one of his own calloused palms, tracing scars and aches decades old.
"I am quite old, Jaina Proudmoore. In all my years, peace has always been a fleeting thing. Most young warriors give no thought to it, and I was no different. It would take years after my own father's death to make me think of such things, and years after that to achieve it," he said in that same grandfatherly tone.
Yet…an old pain, long scarred over and as healed as it would ever be, lingered in Cairne's voice.
"The time that Baine's mother and I spent together, simply caring for a child on the plains, without having to go out and face the centaur and Quilboar every week… was by far the best time of my life," he said nostalgically.
One thing that the mage had learned in dealing with the Horde was that weakness was rarely tolerated, and so Jaina rapidly dabbed at the sudden wetness in her eyes.
"I…am happy to hear that you think that peace is a possibility Cairne, and I swear to you that I will do my best to make sure it happens," she said, and was proud that she was able to contain the slight quaver that nearly entered her voice.
Sniffing slightly, she finished wiping her eyes and then brightened.
"But, you've mentioned Baine a few times now, but I don't know much about him!" she said.
Cairne's expression turned immensely proud as he grinned, fully aware that the mage was steering the conversation from old aches. He was happy to do so.
"Ah hah! Now there is a topic that I could go on about! Baine is the strongest, wisest boy his age, and by far one of the finest warriors that the tauren have ever produced, and I don't say that just because I'm the boy's father!" he proclaimed.
Cairne truly did go on, even as Jaina watched on with a small smile on her lips, until the night grew long enough for her to have to depart.
As she slipped out of the Great Hall, she found herself confronted by a very large orc. In comparison to many of the Horde's warriors, the orc had a large scabbard slung along her hip and with the aid of multiple leather straps held a flag along her back though the darkness kept its heraldry in shadow. Memories of study alongside her mentor allowed Jaina's brain to easily supply the likely classification of the warrior before her.
Blademaster…
Jaina's smile dropped immediately at the warrior's extremely unfriendly expression, and her face turned hard at the gleaming sword held tightly in the green woman's hand. Pale hands gripped a staff that quietly started to glow as the wind began to blow on the flag on the orcs back.
"Can I help y-," Jaina began before dodging out of the way of a haphazard swipe that would have taken off her head.
"The Warchief has gone insane! First, he sends our greatest away, and now he lets a human walk unhindered in the camp! No more! I will end this!" the orc snarled.
A flurry of blows fell towards the human who blinked a short distance away, her staff now held in a combat position and sparking with power.
Though the moon was high, there were still others about. As the two began to circle one another, others came to investigate the noise. Those in the watchtowers turned to watch, and some of those still awake in the Great Hall slipped out of the doors.
"Can't we talk about this?!" Jaina cried, ducking under another slash before slamming her staff into the orcs belly, driving a cough of air from the growling warrior.
As she disengaged, the mage nearly gagged at the overpowering stench of alcohol that drifted from that cough before she blinked behind the warrior once more and swung her staff into the orcs skull. A loud crack echoed throughout the camp, but the Blademaster merely shook her head wildly before turning to the mage once more.
"No! No more talking! The chieftain went to talk to Thrall, and now he is gone! But now he talks to you, and you live! You come into our camp, eat our food, drink our drinks! A week, a week I have let my blade grow cold, no longer hot with the blood of Alliance wretches, NO MORE!" the orc bellowed.
Jaina's eyes widened as the torch light finally cast itself fully upon the raging woman and the banner she carried. Unlike the rest of the Horde who bore reds and blues to signify their allegiance either under the greater banner of the Horde or directly under the Frostwolf clan, the snarling warrior woman's pauldrons were colored purple. The light further allowed the mage to see just who the flag represented.
"Warsong…" Jaina whispered in her surprise.
Despite the quiet of her words, the grunt stopped and cocked her head almost robotically. Her eyes burned, and before Jaina's eyes actually glowed red for a moment before fading.
"Yes. Warsong. Warsong! WARSONG!" the blademaster roared, growing louder and louder until by the final repetition her voice had grown beyond the volume that Jaina would have thought possible.
The woman arched her head back, inhaled deeply, and then gave out a cry that nearly destroyed Jaina's eardrums, the scream echoing out through the entire camp and across Stonetalon peak. All across the camp those who had been slumbering jumped awake, hands reaching for weapons instinctively. The camp began to rouse itself, and still the erstwhile blademaster remained unhindered in her continued assault against the human.
Jaina's eyes darted back and forth, incredulous that none of the watching Horde had stopped her attacker. Indeed, all they had done was form a circle to prevent either from entering areas or buildings that might suffer from any collateral damage. She even saw money pass some hands in the background while others chuckled.
As the mage despaired, she contemplated simply engulfing the orc in flames, teleporting away, and rousing her forces that had also been furiously attempting to convince her to attack the Horde. But she didn't, only attacking with her staff when she could, but as of yet she knew that though she could use any of her more powerful spells to defeat her opponent that it would likely end any future relations between the Alliance and the Horde then and there.
They know I can kill her with a snap of my fingers, Jaina realized. That was why none of them were helping her. Some of the sniggering soldiers were pointing at the stumbling drunkard, not her. I can use this!
As the fight continued, dust rising from the advancing orc woman who let out another one of those terrible screams, Jaina was finally hit. The blade only cut her lightly across the stomach, but to a mage who had managed to avoid most physical damage throughout her life as a result of remaining at range the flash of hot pain was enough to send her tumbling to her feet.
To Jaina's dismay, she saw Cairne and Vol'jin in the back of the crowd, attempting to get through. She wanted to tell them no, she could handle it, but there was no way her voice would reach them.
The blademaster raised her blade, her expression joyful, and before Jaina could say anymore, it flashed down.
The world slowed.
Jaina had heard her father once explain how it felt to be in the thick of melee combat after she had espoused the wonders of magic and the ability to flash across the battlefield.
There are moments, Jaina. Moments where the world itself pauses and allows you to reassert yourself…to take inventory of your thoughts. The adrenaline pumping through ones veins allows the body and mind to react and perform faster than you thought possible, and it is in those moments that can mean life or death. It happened to me many a time on the battlefield during the Second War. Once, I dodged a cannon ball fired from a Horde battleship.
What? Of course it's true!
The point, daughter, is that in the middle of it, when you can't watch a fireball land from fifty feet away, things are different.
Things are different.
The blade fell further.
The Horde and Alliance are not the same.
Blood pounded in her ears.
The treaty and the ceremony, the same result but a different process.
Magic sparked in her fingers.
Assert dominance in the initial proceedings to ensure that the other parties respect you enough to refrain from attacking your own position. This is one of the most important things that a diplomat of the Kirin Tor must learn. Gilneas and Kul Tiras may argue over who gets to control the waterways, but they may not begin to turn against the Kirin Tor agent sent to help as a neutral party!
Dust filled her nostrils.
Assert dominance to ensure that parties respect you.
Rocks dug into her backside as her body tensed.
Assert dominance to make them respect you. Dominance is achieved through force, be it physically or mentally through conversation.
The victory evident in the Warsong woman's eyes faded to give way to surprise.
I told them that negotiations would be useless! They only dared to surrender once we broke Doomhammer. Force is the only thing that orcs understand!
Things are different.
We cannot let them stop us from reaching the Oracle!
I've been burned by the Alliance before.
Peace is possible.
The Horde is too violent. Your proposal is rejected, Antonidas of the Kirin Tor!
Don't fret Jaina, it was a long-shot anyway. Why? I had to try, my student. Things can change with time, even, no, especially a people.
Accept each other's ways and move forward!
Things are different.
A ball of pure kinetic force slammed into the orcs stomach, breaking through tightened muscles to shatter the ribs beneath.
But not too different.
The blademaster went flying, her body forced twenty feet into the air.
Jaina's eyes widened as less than a second after the Warsong's body went flying, the Doomhammer itself ripped through the air directly where the skull of the orcs head would have been. The hammer glowed so brightly as to be blinding as it continued on its flight before slamming into the earth.
"WHAT IN OGRIMS NAME IS GOING ON HERE!" bellowed Thrall.
The orc Warchief was shirtless, a pair of moccasins being his only clothing as sweat poured from his body and his chest heaved. Fury and confusion blazed in his eyes as the Warchief stepped out of the Spirit Lodge. Following behind him were numerous shamans, the power of elements washing out of the open door as the various communing rituals ended abruptly.
Jaina had gotten to her feet, but she tensed as Thrall stomped towards her, emotion boiling in his eyes. She opened her mouth to defend herself when, all of a sudden, Cairne spoke having somehow moved his bulk through the crowd and to her side without making a sound.
"She was assaulted with no provocation by the warrior she just sent flying, Warchief. Furthermore, we both know she could have ended the fight with her magic at any time," he said with a grave voice.
Thrall began to speak before he was interrupted by Vol'jin who had also appeared.
"He speaks de truth mon. Besides, we got a' bigga problem. De girl dat just got whomped, she be yellin' bout Grom," the troll said.
If fury had burned in his eyes before, now it blazed hot enough to melt the earth in Thrall's eyes. He turned and leapt to where the orc woman had landed, the Doomhammer summoned to his grip with the powers of the wind. As he reached her, the blademaster had just begun to try and stand, blood pouring from her lips but the blade still held tightly in one hand. Her eyes widened in shock, fear entering her expression, as Thrall appeared before her.
He did not offer her a hand.
Thrall looked at her, and at all the warriors who had stood by and watched, and fumed. The excited expressions on many orcs faces disappeared to be replaced with chagrin and disappointment.
"I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO DISAPPOINTED!" he bellowed. The spirits of the wind carried his voice across the camp while the spirits of water soothed his aching throat muscles from achieving such volume.
"SOMEONE UNDER THE PERSONAL PROTECTION OF THE WARCHIEF IS ASSAULTED, AND YOU ALL WATCHED AND DID NOTHING!" he continued.
The attention of the camp focused on Thrall like a needle point, their attentions captured like animals in a trap.
"THERE WILL BE GRAVE CONSEQUENCES FOR THIS. RETURN TO YOUR POSTS TO AWAIT JUDGEMENT," he roared. At the sight of so many frozen faces, he continued.
"NOW!"
Like the crack of a whip, the crowds dispersed back across the camp.
Behind them, her light wound bound, Jaina arrived with Cairne and Vol'jin's assistance. Thrall shoved the blademaster to the ground with his hand before turning and ignoring the groan of pain that followed.
"Jaina, there is nothing I can do to show how sorry I am for this. However, I promise you, I will do all that I can-," he began before Jaina stopped him, her face still slightly pinched with pain.
"Warchief Thrall, I understand at this moment in time that you have lost control of your warriors, and as such I will be unable to continue settlement negotiations for the foreseeable future as I heal from my wound," she began, even as Thrall's face flushed.
"There will indeed be repercussions for this, but given that our respective chosen locations for a more permanent settlement are geographically far enough apart, it will more than likely come down to a redrawn agreement towards resources," she continued.
Moving free of Cairne's helping hand, she stood in front of him, unflinching and ignoring the red that stained her stomach bandages.
"I will be leaving now. Do not expect me to return for at least a week," Jaina said.
With that, she moved without faltering once out of the camp before turning to face Thrall even as he split his attention between glaring at the fallen blademaster and herself.
Jaina's eyes looked up then, staring at the orcs and trolls remaining in the watchtowers. As a silent spell was cast, and the darkness of the night was peeled back to her sight, she saw what was now firmly being displayed on the faces of the Horde.
Respect.
A set of blue circles cycled, and so covered up the small satisfied smile on the mages lips before she disappeared.
Back in the camp, Thrall watched before sighing, frustration seeping into every fiber of his frame. He moved to stand over the orc who had nearly ruined everything , and snarled at the barely conscious warrior.
"What the hell did you think you were doing!?!" he hissed.
The woman paused, on hand held against her head and the other against her ribs, but her glare still burned hotly at the Warchief.
"I was doing as I was taught, and restoring the honor of our people. Of the Horde, of my uncle!" she said back, pain still coloring her voice.
Thrall leaned down until their tusks were almost touching, and replied.
"By attacking someone under the banner of peace and by disobeying your Warchief," he said before straightening.
"Who are you, wretch?" he said coldly.
The woman's eyes briefly glowed red as she replied.
"My name is Garda Hellscream, 'Warchief'," she replied, condescension coloring the last word.
Thrall stood back, shock filling his face.
"I am the niece of Grommash Hellscream, chieftain of the Warsong, and though I may have failed to remove the stain that was the human, I demand to know what you have done with him!!"
0o0o0o0o0o0
Jaina sighed as the medic fussed over her. By the doorway stood one of the paladins that had followed her across from the sea, Buzan the Fearless, and two of the knights that had come with him.
"It's not actually that big of a deal. She was drunk, and the cut isn't even a quarter of an inch deep. I'm just…unused to getting hit, that's all," she said with annoyance.
"My lady! I can't believe you are being so flippant about this! The Horde has broken it's agreement with us, you should be ordering us to battle not refusing it!" Buzan said angrily.
Jaina turned her head to him and glared, the paladin wilting under her gaze.
"It was not the Horde, Buzan, it was one warrior. Literally just the one. Besides, the leaders of the Horde were attempting to assist, and that means significantly more than the actions of one of their soldiers," she said.
Buzan floundered before he rallied.
"But the larger number of their common soldiers did nothing! They-," he began.
"They knew that I could have ended her at any time. If she had been in top form I would have been forced to kill her, I know it, they know it. Hell, when I first teleported to the camp they started up protocols about mages! They aren't stupid, Buzan. We will not lay siege to their camp, am I understood?" she said firmly.
"Furthermore, this is beneficial in the long run," she continued.
Buzan protested wildly at this.
"How in the name of the Light could you being attacked and wounded possibly be beneficial in the long run," he shouted.
"First off, it's late at night so quiet yourself Buzan," Jaina said sharply, to which the paladin ducked his head in embarrassment.
"Secondly, because I was blooded but remained in battle, and then beat a blademaster on my own power. It doesn't matter if she was so drunk she shouldn't have been able to stand, blademaster's are regarded as some of the premier warriors of the Horde. Both of those are some of the most significant actions that one can undertake to earn their respect!" she continued.
Several years before, Archmage Antonidas had written several treatises on the Horde, and though the more well-known dealt with their lethargy and strange reactions after the end of the Second War, several more on their culture had been published as well. It was thanks to those that Jaina knew at all how to turn the situation to her advantage.
"This changes things, Buzan. Before, I was just an interloper who was unfairly sat at the table of respected warriors and leaders. Now, I have proven that I can fight against one of the top warriors of the Horde, the title of said fighter being worth far more than their condition. You might not see how this will affect things going forward, but I do," Jaina stated.
"Now then, do you have something else for me or is that all?"
Buzan looked at her, opened his mouth several times as his eyes remained locked on the re-wrapped bandages around her stomach before eventually sagging and shaking his head with resignation.
"No, my Lady. I shall take my leave of you then."
Jaina watched him leave before lightly hopping off the table, waving off the medic who threw up his arms and walked away. She poked at her wound before sighing and teleporting back to her room. Waving both hands, a dozen layered spells of concealment and protection faded away while at the same time a dozen more anti-scrying wards were cast in their place.
A shimmering of light appeared before revealing a small wooden chest carved over with magic runes.
Leaning over, she placed a very old key into the lock before twisting enough to hear a light click. Fingertips lifted the lid as Jaina looked in.
"So. Let's see what I can learn from you today, hmm?"
The Book of Medivh merely floated silently within.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
"Conjurus Rex. Fordred Aran. Kelen the Seeker. Three of the most powerful Archmage's in the Kirin Tor. Will this suffice for your needs, necromancer?"
"Indeed, death knight. Now, place Belo'vir's body on the top, and let us begin."
The long-dead body of Grand Magister Belo'vir was tossed upon a pyre of unholy blue flame, joining the skeletons of the others. What little flesh and meat remained upon the corpse were quickly consumed, until only bones remained.
Arthas Menethil turned Frostmourne then, a spear of dark energies crashing into the pile. All around the great pyre were a dozen of the Cult of the Damned, necromancers all. A great cascade of green magic poured forth from their hands, joining the still outpouring of energy from the death knight, all culminating in the center of the clearing.
There was a great rumbling, until all the bones began to tremble of their own power as magic continued to be funneled in. The blue flames in Arthas's eyes blazed brightly as a great explosion occurred, sending many of the necromancers flying.
From the burning blue flames came a lightly floating creature made entirely of bone, wreathed in the unholy might of the Scourge.
A lich.
"I am reborn, as the Lich King promised!" came the voice of Kel'Thuzad joyfully.
The lich drifted over to the King of Lordaeron before bowing at the waist.
"Though the Sunwell could not be used to bring about my rebirth, your wondrously grown powers over the past two months have proven more than enough. The corruption of the Sunwell was about destroying the High Elves as well, and they managed to achieve that without us," it said with a snort despite its non-existent nose.
"Indeed. Tell me, lich, why did our master have you be revived now, if I could have done so even before Antonidas's trickery?" Arthas asked curiously.
"Because there has been a paradigm shift in the Legions plans as a result. They had desired the easy option of crushing Dalaran and thus depriving the world of their arcane might before while using the Book, but it seems now we must pursue the far more difficult target," Kel'Thuzad replied.
Arthas looked at the lich, disbelief evident even from the blasted remains of his face.
"The easy….the easy target!? Dalaran's magics dealt almost as much a blow as the Sunwell did over the course of a week, and at the hands of Antonidas the Legion lost three of its most veteran commanders!" he said incredulously.
"What the hell will be a harder target than that!?" he continued.
Kel'Thuzad tutted, shaking his skull.
"Your world knowledge is lacking, death knight. There is another place on this continent, where a powerful portal to elsewhere already exists. It is large and more than stable enough to withstand the coming of Archimonde, should we be able to force its destination to be the Twisting Nether," the lich replied.
Arthas waved on for him to continue impatiently.
"Mmmm. Yes. The reason it was considered to be the…back-up, for lack of a better term, is because that portal is even more jealously guarded than the Book was," Kel'Thuzad began before being interrupted.
"Again, I ask, Lich, and this time I expect a straight-forward answer!" Arthas snarled.
Kel'Thuzad stared with annoyance at the death knight before nodding.
"Very well, I shall summarize. The portal we seek has a master, death knight. While the Book was untouched due to fear, where the Scourge will be heading next the situation will be the opposite. The portal and its master are worshipped, and neither it nor it's servants will allow us to take the portal without a fight."
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Several miles south of the ruins of Dalaran, south of Arathi, south of the Wetlands, a great volcano pierced the skies. Lava and smoke belched from it constantly, and within it's honeycombed skin an endless war was waged between bloodthirsty savages and coal-skinned dwarves wielding dark magics.
Miles below that was a molten place where the heat was unbearable for all but the most hardy people. Horrendous creatures made of pure lava and flame poured forth from this place in an endless tide to take part in the war above.
In the center of that pit was a vast swirling whirlpool of lava and magic, and it was from here that those mindless hordes of flame spawned from. Suddenly, without warning, the portal shuddered.
Bursting forth to scrape the ceiling of that place was vast and terrible titan of pure flame and destruction. In one hand was grasped a hammer made of solidified lava and hatred, the other clenched into a fist.
Eyes that had watched the formation of Azeroth itself narrowed as they glared beyond the confines of the mountain, far to the north to a place where a whisper of treachery had just been heard.
For even flames made of unholy blue were still under the dominion of fire.
"You may try, wretches!" roared Ragnaros the Flame Lord.
New legions of its servants soon began to pour forth from the Firelands in numbers the world had never seen.
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