Arthas pulled the parka close around him. Undeath had stolen fear of the cold from him, and there was little the chill winds could do to him now. His human body, however, still shivered out of instinct. The wind, like the very breath of winter, whipped ever at his hair and skin, making him feel as cold on the outside as his frosty black heart within had already become.
He stood atop a flat, impossibly long slab of ice, summoned into being for passage across the great northern sea. The voyage was a short one, but the water was deep nonetheless, and undead could not swim. So Ner'zhul, the Lich King, had conjured them a raft.
Arthas looked around him at the assembled skeleton warriors, necromancers, crypt fiends and other miscellaneous undead that shared the huge icy barge with him. All accounted, they had to number well into the tens of thousands, perhaps even a hundred thousand. Arthas did not know for sure, and it did not matter. Nor did the numbers of their enemies matter, far away beneath the World Tree's branches. Their task, all their tasks, were small ones, simple; yet of great importance. It was not their numbers that would matter in the feat ahead, but their character, and the depth of their cunning.
Bracing himself for hardships known and unknown, clear and hidden, Arthas clenched his teeth and again pulled the parka close around him.
The nether fires raged around Kil'jaeden the Deceiver as he sat in his darkest sanctum, far from the boundaries of reality. Lit by the flickering, never-expiring flames, the room was the color of pooled blood. Time and space held no jurisdiction here, where all dimensions converged on the utter chaos that was the Twisting Nether. Yet, even here, the pulse of the multiverse continued, and even the great Kil'jaeden felt its rhythm. There was a world, called Azeroth. There, the currents of power had begun to shift, end even great demons like the Deceiver had to float with the tides.
From a massive throne made of bones, some demonic and some mortal, Kil'jaeden sat and looked down at a trio of tiny, impish demons at his feet. Each of the imps held with surprising ease what appeared to be a great, glassy mirror; the mirrors, however, showed no reflection, only the endless, warped blackness of the Twisting Nether.
Kil'jaeden waved his arm lazily and murmured a string of syllables. The mirrors roared to life. The first captured the image of a great, red Pit Lord with eyes of fury. The other two each showed dreadlords, one with blue skin and one with yellow.
Kil'jaeden turned first to the image of the Pit Lord, and spoke.
"Azgalor," the great Eredar rasped, he voice that of pure torment, "I see that you ready for battle. What conflict draws you to join it?" The Pit Lord blinked, as if Kil'jaeden had appeared out of thin air – which, as a matter of fact, he very well may have.
After its surprise had passed, it said quickly, "Why, my Lord, it is Archimonde's war. His forces – our forces – are nearing Mount Hyjal. The time for the taking of this world at long last draws near."
"I did not instruct you to join my brother at Hyjal," Kil'jaeden said.
"Shall I not?" Azgalor asked. "Your brother does not need my aid. If it is your wish, I shall take my leave of him – though I must say that I had hoped to drink the blood of many mortal foes this day. I've not tasted battle for centuries – but if you wish me to wait longer still, I shall."
"You may drink of the battle, Azgalor, my child. Drink until you are quenched. But know this," Kil'jaeden said. "Your task is not that of my brother's. He believes that the World Tree will fall this day, and Azeroth with it. I know better, my child."
Azgalor looked shocked. "Then the hour of victory is not at hand?"
Kil'jaeden smiled – a horrid, wicked smile. "Peace, Azgalor. Victory is indeed at hand – a great victory. But the final battle will remain still to be fought. Archimonde's war is dire, and he will sacrifice all to win it; in the end, it will consume him. He will destroy the World Tree today, and this world will buckle, of that I have no doubt. Yet if we die to plant the orchard, no one will live to harvest the fruit. Your task, Azgalor, is to see that when my brother's gambit is played, the Legion survives to reap the rewards of his labors."
Azgalor nodded and his image vanished. The imp carrying his mirror scurried away with it. Kil'jaeden turned now to the other two mirrors.
"Mephistroth, Anetheron," he called, and the images blinked as they saw him. The dreadlords made awkward bows and looked back at him.
"My lord," said Mephistroth, the blue one.
"Master?" said the yellow Anetheron. He looked confused, even frightened. "Where is Tichondrius?"
"Your brother Tichondrius is dead. He was slain by the elf sorcerer, Illidan."
"Master," Mephistroth roared, "does this 'Illidan' yet live?"
"Yes, my child, the murderer lives. You must find him. He has tasted demon blood, and even now he thirsts for more. You will use this thirst to draw him to you, but be warned – it will also make him powerful."
"We do not fear him," Anetheron spat. "He will die at our hands!"
"The foul elf will perish!" swore Mephistroth.
"Good," Kil'jaeden said. "Now go." The mirrors went dark.
The ice-barge struck ground, and Arthas stepped down onto the soft, brown earth. Even the dirt was a reminder that he was no longer in his own territory; the endless winter of Northrend held little authority here, where it was perpetually summertime. Even the chill wind that had tossed his hair and bitten at his skin was fading, replaced by warmer breezes from the south. He relaxed his grip on his parka and drew the runesword, Frostmourne, from its scabbard; its familiar dark glow seemed absent as the light of Kalimdor's summer sun reflected off its steel blade.
No, this was definitely not Northrend. This was foreign territory. He would have to keep his wits about him.