The Legion's fear
Chapter 1
Oceans waves slammed against the shoreline. The stormy winds howled and twisted. The trees bent and the animals scattered. A man stood near the edge of the cliff, the only thing that kept him from the dangers of the churning waters. A withered old farm behind him.
But it was nothing compared to what he had seen, what he had felt. A small smile grew on his face. He remembered what used to be. When he was but a young lad. Of more peaceful times. Jade Mendenhall. His wife. His beautiful wife, hair blonde and shining as the very sun itself. Her laughter, a melody to his ears.
His daughter, Leah, a fighter if nothing else. It was as if got the best of her parents. Her mother's hair and fathers piercing blue eyes.
He remembered the happy times, filled with love and life.
They had enough gold to buy land near the shores of Tirisfal. A small farm. Not much, put it was enough for them.
Life was wonderful. Magically even.
But soon the rumors came. Rumors of death and terror. Prince Arthas, someone that his entire family knew well, had returned to Lordaeron, killing his father Terenas Menethil and the people of the mighty city. But he had not stopped there, the prince. He scoured the land, raising the dead and adding them to his army of servants.
But then the day came when everything was taken away from him. His wife and child were playing in the grass. He would never forget that beautiful moment. His daughter's sweet laughter and the small smile on Jade's perfect face. If only he could stay there, with them forever.
But alas, nothing lasts forever. The rumbling started, growls could be heard.
Then it all stopped.
What happened next would change everything.
Monsters ran towards them from the woods. Humanoid beasts and the alike.
He was not the most experienced fighter, but he could defend himself and his family.
He was naive. As he was about to run towards his wife and child, shield them, fight for them, anything. But the undead monstrosities were to quick.
He did not make it. He watched Leah scream for help as the undead surrounded them. His wife's pleading, tear filled eyes as she looked straight into his eyes. He was forced to watch as the horde tore the only ones he had ever loved limb by limb. His daughter's screams for help stunned him. He stood in shock, he could not comprehend what had occurred. Nothing was left over but blood and chunks of flesh.
The chains within snapped. He had never felt hatred this potent. As the horde of ghouls, geists and abominations moved towards him, he let everything loose, his hatred, his agony, his sorrow. With a scream, gargantuan amounts of arcane power was released from his body, with the singular intention of destroying the undead in front of him.
It was like cutting through butter with a hot knife. The undead were crushed, their bodies flying away. He hoped they were gone. He hoped that it was over.
He had never been more wrong in his life.
He had been captured, tortured for years and years by the undead Scourge, while it's master slept on his throne of ice. He did not know why they didn't just kill him. He supposed that it was some sort of twisted humour that the fiends shared. The ones in charge of his imprisonment were cruel, more than the other wardens in the Citadel. They starved him, gave him just enough food and what water was drinkable. Continuously for six whole years before he was released of his agony and the haunting memories of his beloved wife and child. A blade straight through his heart. A surprisingly clean death.
He thought that was the end of it. But it seemed that the Lich King would not give up a possible soldier in his damned army. Cruel warriors of darkness were made by his will and the power of the blade Frostmourne. Death knights. He, one among them. He committed atrocities, slaughtered men, women and children without any remorse or morality, he grew in power and skill until the day when they were betrayed by their own master. Light's Hope Chapel was the place where he would remember everything. Everyone he killed, everything.
After that day he sought revenge on the man that had ruined his life, the man that had killed everyone he knew. And the man whose minions had killed his family in front of him.
He had slaughtered thousands upon thousands of the Scourge. His fury seething and his unholy powers was unstoppable to anything and anyone that dared to stand in his way. He had fought the barbaric Vrykul, their leaders and their soldiers. They were nothing compared to him.
He had fought the machinations of the titan prison of Ulduar, faced the physical representation of the old god Yogg-saron and his minions and lived.
But even with the armies of Azeroth, they were still nothing compared to the power of the Lich King. He realised that to fight something that powerful, you yourself must become something more. So with the guidance of Highlord Darion Mograine, he sought out to build a weapon that would decide the future of Azeroth.
Shadowmourne.
A weapon of enormous unholy power and potential. Powered by hundreds and hundreds of the souls of the Scourge.
The moment finally came. All of the Lich King's servants had been brought down by him and the soldiers of the Alliance and the Horde. Separated from the rest of the forces, he, adventurers and the most powerful paladin on Azeroth, Tirion Fordring stood against one of the most powerful forces on on the planet.
He then noticed him. Above the mighty ice throne, just above where the traitor prince sat, hang a man, bound by chains, almost unrecognizable by the dragon fire that had seared the flesh of the former Commander Bolvar Fordragon. A gruesome sight.
The battle had been long and hard. Even with the power of Shadowmourne and the holy blade Ashbringer, adventurers and their own powers, the Lich King was still stronger.
Tirion was brought out from the fight earlier than the death knight had expected, captured by the power of chilling ice and magic. The others fell quickly, unprepared by the stunning assault of the Lord of the Dead.
The two mighty warriors clashed. Axe and sword in a deadlock. The very air around the shook. The unholy and necrotic powers enveloped them and strengthened the powerful warriors. The undead summoned nearly unlimited.
The battle could only be described as astonishing. Magic being thrown around like candy, but far more powerful.
The battle continued for several minutes until he fell. Even with all of his power he was nothing compared to the Lich King. The wielder of Frostmourne had toyed with him, he realised.
But just as Arthas moved to finish him off, Frostmourne ready to feast on his own powerful soul, Tirion, miraculously, shattered his frozen prison with the incredible power of the light.
The former prince of Lordaeron was as surprised he was. Even though the Lich King was fast, Tirion, infused with holy power, whose amounts he had never seen before, was faster. Charging straight towards them, the paladin swung his holy blade towards the sword that kept thousands upon thousands of souls in it. It shattered.
The souls of the tormented lashed out against their former captor, lifting Arthas up in the air.
The former servant of the Scourge quickly got on his feet and ran at the Lord of the dead.
He raised Shadowmourne and started summoning great amounts of arcane and unholy powers into one final attack.
"Malthus!"
He was brought out of his memories of days past.
Still facing forward he answered the one calling his name through the powerful winds.
"What is it, old friend?" Malthus dark echoing voice responded to the other behind him, the winds not affecting his perfect hearing. That was something positive about being undead. And the immunity to cold.
Highlord Darion Mograine stood in front of the Death Gate that had brought him here. His cold, calculating blue eyes stared at the back of the death knight that he had known for years.
His fellow brother of the Ebon Blade was indeed an imposing sight for many. Dark blue fiend like armor, crafted out of pure saronite, the blood of the Old God Yogg-Saron. Gloves adorned by claw-like steel at the fingertips.
Pauldrons made from dark energies, forming living, consuming jaws that consumed the very light around them at the death knights will. Long dark blue hair that reached his back. He had never really liked wearing helmets.
But what stood out the most, except the dark, soul stealing axe on the man's back, was his eyes.
All of his death knights had special eyes. That is what made them truly distinguishable apart from the mortals. But Malthus was different. Power radiated from them, necrotic energies, lifestealing energies and surprisingly, arcane energies, a mix of light blue, dark green and strong purple. The power of Shadowmourne probably had something to do with the changes as well.
The man had told him of the fate of his family. He had confined in Darion. The Highlord was the only one he trusted with his secret. The champion had told him of the day. Of the power that he never knew he had. Powerful magic. It had truly cemented their friendship and brotherhood.
Not only that, but his eyes showed his experience. The man was a well rounded fighter.
He couldn't help but truly respect the man in front of him. His feats we're not something that everyone could've accomplished. He had slain the Lich King, albeit with help from the Alliance and the Horde. And Fordring.
But a feat nonetheless. He had fought the very earth itself, after the corrupted earth-warder Neltharion, later known as Deathwing the Destroyer re-emerged from Deepholm. With the help of the shaman Thrall and the powerful dragon aspects and the inhabitants of the world, they had defeated the mad aspect and brought peace to the land.
The son of Alexandros Mograine had stood with the wielder of Shadowmourne through many battles in mysterious Pandaria. Against the impulsive and mad Warchief Garrosh Hellscream when he had unleashed the Sha, the last breath of Y'Shaarj, upon the peaceful Vale of Eternal Blossoms, corrupting the land.
Malthus and he worked together on the alternate reality of Draenor, against the Iron Horde, the Legion and someone he had never wished to see. Gul'dan. The Alliance and the Horde united to fight the enemies of Azeroth. They had stormed the citadel of the corrupted Horde and slain every corrupted orc, demon and the alike. Even the mighty Archimonde the Defiler himself, the right hand of the dark titan Sargeras, had fallen before their might, but with his last breath in the living world he sent Gul'dan through a portal taking him gods know where.
Through the many battles and victories, Malthus had earned quite the reputation. He had even been called the Shadow of Death. The man thought it was a fitting name
And here they were, two of the most powerful warriors on Azeroth, standing on a cliff overlooking the sea.
"I bring grave news, my brother." The Highlord said. Even though he had experienced much in his lifetime, he was extremely worried about the reaction of his fellow death knight. But nonetheless, he had to be informed.
"The Burning Legion has returned."
The wind stopped. Silence overcame shoreline. His own chilling breath the only sound in the area.
Malthus slowly turned his head, his body slightly shaking, Mograine sensed slow boiling fury within the Champion of the Ebon Blade, and said a single word, "What?". The emotions behind it were all too easy to identify. Hatred. Shock.
This could not be happening. How? The Legion should not have been able to come to their world without..
"Gul'dan.." his eyes widened in revelation. "That son of a..." So that's what the Black gate's purpose was. To send the warlock to Azeroth and open the way for the burning armies of the Legion. How could he not have realised this earlier? Of course the demon's plans would not be thwarted so easy. But how could Gul'dan single handedly bring the Legion into their world? Not even he was that powerful.
Malthus swiftly turned towards Darion and said, "What of the mortal world? What of the major cities?"
Not a single moment could be wasted.
Darion answered with a voice worthy of a commander, "Our scouts has reported that the cities of the Alliance and the Horde has not been under assault nor the land of Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms. The Leaders of both factions has sent a large amounts of troops to the source of the Legion invasion...the Broken Isles and" ,the Highlord hesitated but answered in the end, "the Tomb of Sargeras." Closing his eyes, the son of Alexandros Mograine sighed.
This was new information to Malthus. The Tomb of Sargeras. He had heard of it through his time talking about the Guardian with Khadgar. A surprisingly interesting fellow. A powerful one at that.
This was not good. He knew of the power of that place. He knew what was buried there.
He knew that if the locks and barriers would be breached, anything was possible.
The champion of the Ebon Blade got down on one knee and lowered his head. "Highlord, may I have your permission to aid the warriors on the battlefield?"
Darion lightly chuckled. Even though he was far more powerful than him, Malthus still respected and acknowledged that he was still Highlord of the Ebon Blade.
"Rise my friend, you know full well that you are permitted to aid our living allies. I will prepare Acherus for travel. I hope you can hold out without us." he said as a small smirk grew on his face.
Malthus quickly stood up, eyes blazing with power. He too had a small smirk on his face.
"Thank you Darion. I will go to Stormwind and join the next strike force."
The Legion would be stopped. If not, the world that they knew would perish in fire.