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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. Don't worry guise, I'm working on rewriting as we speak!
