Well, this is my first story. Forgive the untopical name, I registered ages ago but never submitted anything. Curse that "one account per email address" thing. Spoiler alert for anyone who hasn't played Frozen Throne.
Prologue: The Dead Council of War
Necromancer-General Driyarov slammed his fist down on the stone arm of his chair. "The Illidanian Remnants are scattered! They can no longer hinder us! The war is in full swing! The battlefields of Azeroth are ripe for the harvesting and the Horde and Alliance are too busy slaughtering each other to notice us! And the Scourge have never been stronger!" He got to his feet and glared at the four other people (if they could be called people) in the chamber around him. Driyarov banged his staff into the ground with each syllable of the next sentence. "And. Still. We. WAIT! Why do we sit here in Northrend and allow our warriors to rot when there is killing to be done?"
He sat down. The great beetle-creature standing before the seat across from his shifted and spoke. "Oh, we could send our mighty forces off to battle," Rumbled Anub'Arak. "We could march off to war, driving the pathetic enemies of the King before us. And while you were off slaughtering, General, the hordes of the Forgotten Ones would charge out of their holes and crush us without a fight-" "Oh, for the love of all that's unholy!" cried a banshee on the seat next to Anub'Arak in exasperation. "I have had just about enough of this "Forgotten One" nonsense!" Kelarna Blackminister, the High Priestess of Death, spoke. "You and Lord Arthas destroyed them in the tunnels and collapsed half of Azjol-Nerub on them!" "And they are not dead. A mere cave-in would not even faze them. Were we to start moving out, they would not wait for a second to-" "And we would rip them limb from limb! Nothing can challenge us on our own land!" "You underestimate them, General-"
The conversation was about to turn into a shouting match, when a voice rang through the room. "Enough." Everyone froze. The voice emanated from the figure seated upon the massive throne of ice at the head of the room. It was a human voice, but underlying it was a power beyond Azeroth. "Forgive, my lord." Said Driyarov. "I simply do not see the cause for concern-" "Then do not. Anub'Arak, what do you wish done?" "I would request that a battalion be left here under my command. I will secure Icecrown against the Forgotten Ones, and should they come, I will drive them back." Anub'Arak bowed.
The figure considered. "Very well. General, see to it that Anub'Arak gets his troops." Driyarov bowed. "Yes, my lord." The figure turned to Kelarna. "Are your banshees prepared?" "Of course, my lord." She said in her harsh banshee tones. The figure then addressed a lich floating in the chair next to Driyarov. "I trust the wyrm project is on schedule?" "Of course." Replied the breathy, chilled voice of Ras Frostwhisper. "Very well. Have it ready to move by the time we make landfall." The figure turned last to a hulking, red-skinned demon sitting nearest him. "Rorath. The spell is ready, I trust?" "Yes, sir." Growled the Eredar. "It awaits only the target."
The figure stood. Each member of his Council rose and saluted. "Then let the cry go out. We sail at month's end. Let all who stand before us tremble as the dead march." "THE DEAD MARCH!" barked the five Council members. "GLORY TO THE SCOURGE!" The great figure nodded and walked from the room, his massive armored heels cracking the stone of the chamber floor. The Council left.
The massive armored figure exited his citadel onto an ice balcony. He looked out upon his fortress. His great army. His victory. The vast armies of the Undead Scourge. He looked upon what would be the eternal death of Azeroth.
Ner'Arthas looked upon Icecrown Fortress, and he smiled.
Across the Great Sea, a thousand druids and druidesses woke in their beds, shrieking in horror.