CHAPTER 9

But Arthas' dream was only a dream, for the Kingdom of Lordaeron had not risen from its ashes in the real world. The once mighty kingdom continued to be a chaotic portion of land, a battlefield, where the few remaining Human survivors, the Scourge, and the Forsaken fought for control, and none of the sides knew who would be the victor. But only several months before, the situation was different—the Scourge was the leading force, having no serious rivals. And then the Scourge sank in a civil war. The Forsaken, one of the opposing factions, quickly took over the ruined Capital, allegedly destroying the Burning Legion loyalist Balnazzar, and drove the Lich King-aligned Undead out of Tirisfal Glades.

The remnants of the Lich King's forces in that region were now an easy target for Sylvanas' minions, who had been hunting them down and eradicating since the changes in the power balance in the former nation. The hunters had become the prey, and the only way to escape demise for a second time was to flee to the neighboring Western Plaguelands, still under the iron rule of the Scourge warlords.

"Acolyte," sounded the necromancer's dry voice, "when are we going to reach our destination?"

"Soon, very soon. We will be in the Western Plaguelands in a couple of hours," replied the acolyte, his face hidden under the purple hood.

"Finally. I am tired of looking left and right and having a feeling that those cursed rebels are waiting to ambush us." the dark sorcerer added.

The cultist only nodded in agreement. Several days before, their base, perhaps even the last outpost of the Scourge in Tirisfal Glades, was assaulted and completely destroyed by the Forsaken; only several survived and managed to flee. Now they were walking down one of the roads that had been laid during the reign of King Terenas. The acolyte threw a look at the other members of the "company". Calling them a small bunch would have been an exaggeration: he himself, the acolyte, a ghoul and an abomination, an ogre-like undead creature sawn from parts of different corpses, a monstrosity that could scare any living being…except the living in servitude of the Undead.

The day was gloomy—it had been gloomy in that region ever since the coming of the blight. Everything was silent, and the only sounds were the sounds of the footsteps of the terrifying Undead. Their path eventually led them up one of the wooded hills, where they would encounter somebody unexpected…

The necromancer could have mistaken her for the Banshee Queen—the pair of eyes like two drops of blood on an ash-grey face, the hood that covered her head, and the unmistakably Elf structure. However, this one was taller, and even her full armor—something the rebel leader never wore— could not put out the leanness of her body. She stood in the shadows of a tree, a banshee silently floating by her side.

"What are you doing here accompanied by only a banshee? Your foolishness is at its peak," the master of necromancy added.

"There is no need in senseless words, necromancer. I am a ranger; I and my companion are simply scouting the area, searching for Scourge troops to hunt down." a smile, both mysterious and bewitching, spread across her face. "And it seems that you are today's game."

"If you strike us down, we will go down with the Lich King's name on our lips." The acolyte backed the spellcaster in a display of zealotry.

The statement almost made the Ranger chuckle.

"You acolytes are so amusing in your fanaticism," she confessed, her eyes flashing red.

She raised her bow slightly, and the accompanying banshee made her move. Neither the cultist nor the scholar of necromantic magic was able to hinder her path, and, in a blink of an eye, the abomination turned into another of the Dark Lady's servants. Whether a mindless undead being like the abomination could have ever had a real allegiance to the Scourge mattered not. It was now a device to for the slaughter of its past companions. Immediately, the creature set out to carry out the task bestowed by the entity that now dwelt in it, and the ghoul next to it literally lost the ground beneath their feet, grabbed by its throat and shoulder by a pair of strong hands. The creature made a surprised howl. A second later, the ogre-like being threw the hunched freak against the ground with all its might, and the sound of cracking bones came. Then it was the necromancer's turn. With roar not familiar to any woodland beast, the monster swung its heavy axe. The bolt the sorcerer cast before being split almost in half made little harm to it.

A strange feeling began to boil in the acolyte; a feeling that death had finally spread its wings over him. The cultist fell on his knees, waiting to meet his destiny. And his destiny reached him—an arrow with black fletching pierced his chest. He made no sounds or whispers as he fell to the ground.

The Dark Ranger looked at the abomination finishing off the ghoul by crushing his skull with its foot. But the words the acolyte feebly whispered for the last time remained unheard by her ears:

"For the Lich King…for Lord Illidan…"

Thrall was an attentive listener.

"Will we ever be granted peace?" the young Warchief sighed.

"What action should be taken, Warchief?" asked Nazgrel, a high-ranking commander within the Horde, finishing his report.

Thrall rose up from his throne and made two steps towards his lieutenant.

"How many of them are there?" he wondered.

"Around two hundred, according to our sources."

The son of Durotan rubbed his bearded chin. Tiragarde Keep, the last outpost of the forces of Kul Tiras in Kalimdor. Though their numbers were few, those people were as fanatical as their deceased leader, Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore. It was not hard to guess that even the demise of their fleet and their ruler had not neutralized their desire to destroy the New Horde. He knew that the remnants of the Kul Tiras navy would continue to cause trouble for his nation. But what was the solution? For a moment, a strange thought embraced him. He almost found the urge to gather his troops for one more battle, burn the keep to the ground, and make sure that those Humans would find peace in the afterlife. But Thrall was not Orgrim Doomhammer, and he was not Blackhand; he had mercy.

"Nazgrel, nothing is going to be done against them," the Warchief drew his conclusion.

"But Warchief, they might present a danger in the near future…"

"I am fully aware of such a possibility. Only time will tell what threat they really are to us," he returned to his throne.

"As you wish, Warchief," Nazgrel replied. Thrall had hinted that the meeting was over.

Just as the commander was about to leave, a wolfrider, a big muscular male Orc, hurried into the throne room in Grommash Hold.

"Throm-ka, Warchief, I bring urgent news," he proclaimed, making Nazgrel stay.

"What has happened, warrior?" asked Thrall, his brow raised, suddenly he found the information not to his liking.

"Several days ago, a strange Human type surrendered to me and my group of scouts near the borders of Durotar. He seeks an audience with you."

"Is he related to the navy of Kul Tiras?"

"No, but he claims to be the emissary of the Prophet."

Those words echoed in Thrall's mind. The past had showed that the Prophet's presence was the omen of dark times. But who was that mysterious emissary? That was a dreadfully interesting question.

"Was this emissary armed?" Nazgrel interrupted the silence.

"He carried a very strange sword, which he surrendered immediately. He didn't have any other weapons."

"And his appearance?" he asked another question.

"Seemingly, he is an ordinary, young Human male. But one thing—his armor—makes him peculiar. It is dark and death-themed. So we cannot say that he really is who he claims to be."

"Where is he now?" finally spoke the Warchief.

"Just outside Grommash Hold. My teammates are…keeping an eye on him."

"Bring him here. I want to talk to this…" pausing in his statement, Thrall looked at the floor, "…emissary."

The Orc left, and sounds of armored boots began being heard from the hall several minutes later. The so-called emissary entered, two wolfriders to his left and right. Thrall's eyes widened; the person's armor was death-themed indeed—metallic skulls shone on his shoulders and knees in all their horrific coloring. He seemed to be more like an agent of the Scourge than the herald of the Prophet. He held his hands behind his back, and it hinted that they were tied. Long blond hair lay on his shoulders, and stubble had covered his chin. The stranger looked messy and tired. Then another wolfrider came, holding a sword in his hands.

"Let me see it." Thrall waved the warrior to his side. The Orc obeyed.

The Warchief took the weapon in his hand. The sword looked as terrifying as the stranger's armor: its hilt resembled the face of some twisted creature, possibly horned, and unknown runes had been carved on the blade. For some reason, the blade arouse a feeling of disgust in Thrall, he felt a chill stroke his skin. He returned the weapon to the Orc.

"You have asked for an audience with me?" the Horde leader started.

"Yes," was the reply. The dull light that was coming from the torches on the walls made the newcomer look even more malicious.

"Then give me answers to two questions. What is your name? And why are you clad in such armor?"

"Warchief, I am ashamed of my name and wish not to reveal it. But my story will answer your second question."

"Carry on."

Avoiding mentioning about his life before becoming a Death Knight, the stranger spoke about the battle for the Icecrown with the one called Illidan. He spoke about his own defeat, banishment, reunification with his soul, and the agreement to become the Prophet's emissary. He told a story that not only Thrall found suspicious.

"Do you really think that someone would believe in this fairytale?" Nazgrel walked towards the stranger.

"It is not a fairytale!" the emissary proclaimed, his voice raised.

"What does this Lord Illidan have to do with the Horde?" he continued, taking the role of an interrogator.

"Nothing."

"Then why has he sent you to stay here? Why not some other place?"

"I do not know that myself."

"He is probably lying," the commander turned to Thrall.

"Then execute me right here!" his shouted a raged response, "Death is better than what I had until recently and the life I have now!"

"There will be no executions," the Warchief stood up, "I find your story doubtful, and you will remain under arrest until your words will have been proven."

The Human bowed his head.