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Chapter summary: Hoping that the Alliance of Lordaeron will feel obligated to assist in bringing Arthas to justice, Kael subjects himself and his troops to the bigotry of Grand Marshal Garithos.
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Deceiver, Chapter 10: The Halls (Vexallus), Part V
by silverr
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~ : |10| : ~
Un… leash…
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Ah, so now you've discovered the secret: oftentimes one must accept pain and hardship for a greater gain.
So many of our arcanists died learning how to harvest the volatile essences from beings such as Vexallus, but their deaths—unlike so many deaths in Quel'Thalas—were not wasted; such essences power our Arcane Guardians. I'm sure you've met a few on your way in.
Impressive, weren't they? Invented by my dear friend Astalor.
Oh yes, even after all he's recently done to undermine me, I still call him friend. How could I not? First he changed his name to show his commitment to our cause; then he freely spilled his own blood to aid us. Not only that, he endured the pain of proximity to me because he believed that it would help his beloved Rommath. Admirable, if pointless; but then Astalor has always seen the world through the lens of blood magic, in which one voluntarily exchanges pain for power.
That was the lesson he taught me, you see, and that is why I still call him friend: our destiny is shaped, not by the paths forced upon us, but by the paths we choose to take.
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One day, meeting with Rommath, Astalor, Pathaleon, and Vanthryn in the upper room of the inn which had served as his command center since his return to Silvermoon, Kael'thas listened to Freywinn and Navarius present their findings on the return of unplagued wildlife to the forests north of the river. When the two had finished their report he asked, "Any other matters to discuss?"
"One thing more," Rommath said, then turned to Astalor. "It's time."
Astalor nodded, and left the room; when he returned, he was carrying a long narrow box. Setting the box carefully on the table, he stepped back.
Kael opened it.
Inside was Felo'melorn, the ancient runeblade that his father had wielded until Frostmourne had cleaved it in two, just before Arthas struck him down. Kael had assumed that the pieces had been buried with his father.
"One day you will mend the blade, as you are mending our people," Rommath said with absolute conviction.
"Yes," Kael said. "Whatever it takes, we will persevere."
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It was time to go after Arthas: unfortunately, there was no information about where the villain and his army had fled. Astalor and several others believed that the erstwhile prince had been given shelter by former allies; Rommath believed that he would at some point return to Northrend, the site of his unfathomable transformation from human to monster. Kael resorted to pressing his scryers daily for news of Arthas, but they reported nothing useful. Voren'thal claimed at some point that Arthas was — or would be — near the site of a great battle in northern Kalimdor, but, as was often the case, the information was too vague and contradictory to be useful. Kael was particularly scornful of a subsequent report that Jaina Proudmoore would be at this battle as well — allying with an orc chieftain and the leaders of the kaldorei to defeat a demonic invasion, no less! — but Voren'thal assured him that it was a clear, true vision, not to be doubted. Clearly fanciful nonsense, but secretly Kael was pleased at Voren'thal's additional assertions that Jaina would survive the battle, and that Arthas would not be present at the battle. Hearing this gave Kael a modicum of much-needed joy, for he had secretly feared that Arthas might return to Jaina, and that Jaina would take him in. Kael even allowed himself the thought that, some day, after he had taken revenge against Arthas, he would travel across the sea to visit her.
Either way it was obvious that, even if they had known exactly where Arthas was, there were not sufficient elven forces to mount a successful attack, as all but the most seriously injured sin'dorei were actively engaged in reclaiming and defending Silvermoon. Kael knew he needed to bolster his campaign against Arthas with non-elven troops, but the only way to do that was to maintain and exploit Quel'Thalas' ties to the Alliance of Lordaeron—which meant taking himself and as many troops as could be spared and offering them to Grand Marshal Garithos. Kael was not eager to to make himself subject to Garithos again, but the humans were the strongest of Kael's potential allies. Diplomatic relations with the dwarves of Ironforge were too new for Silvermoon to have any leverage, and the gnomes, while clever inventors, weren't known for their army.
Garithos had moved his command base from Dalaran to Silverpine, and Silverpine provided Kael with additional lessons in misery and powerlessness. A dreary, dangerous place, Silverpine was crowded with menacing stands of trees and numerous small caves that looked as though they would provide far too many hiding places for the undead. Days were gray with rain and clammy mists; night brought insidious winds that stabbed and sliced at exposed skin, and the sun, which had first abandoned them the day Arthas had poisoned the Sunwell, now appeared only briefly, flashing on the horizon twice a day like an estranged friend hurrying past.
The inhospitable weather and terrain, however, would turn out to be trivial compared to the 'welcome' Kael and his troops received when they reported to the Alliance command post. Prior to Arthas' destruction of Silvermoon, Kael and his forces, operating out of Dalaran, had more or less been treated as welcome, given the provisions and supplies they needed, and allowed some leeway on where they fought and when; now, however, Garithos' officers treated Kael like a pariah, told him he was to set up his own camp, acquire his own supplies and food, and deploy his troops in strict accordance with their daily assignment. Kael, keeping in mind that his people now needed the humans more than the humans needed them—an ironic reversal from pre-war conditions—and understanding somewhat that the Alliance's resources were stretched thin after such a protracted war with the Scourge, suppressed his anger at this rough treatment. He reminded himself that whatever he endured now would enable him to destroy Arthas later.
Leaving the command post, he'd gone in search of the blacksmith. When he finally located the smithy—a large roofed structure built into the side of a hill—he saw two apprentices working under the stern eye of an imposingly-muscled gray-bearded dwarf.
"Skorgrim the Red, at yer service," the dwarf said as Kael approached. He glanced at the three small spheres of swirling green fire that hovered over Kael's head, but was clearly more curious about the long bundle of faded Thalassian brocade that Kael carried.
"I have a broken sword. Do you have a moment to discuss its repair?"
"Only just, I've got some ingots in." Skorgrim pointed to a space on a workbench. "Put 'er down there."
Kael unwrapped the bundle, revealing the sundered pieces of Felo'melorn.
"Oh now, will ya look at that," the dwarf said reverently. He leaned in for a closer look. "What a beauty. Bin smithin' for sixty years, an' never seen the like." He frowned slightly as he carefully lifted the hilt-half of the sword to peer at the break. "This is no stress fracture, it's a clean rive. What in seven blazes did that?"
"Can it be repaired?" Kael said, trying not to picture Frostmourne slicing through Felo'melorn just before it sliced into his father.
The dwarf sighed and shook his head. "Truthfully? Some idiots might tell you they can solder it, but that's a pile. The join'd be a weak point, like bone that's been broken; it'd likely snap in the same spot as soon as you clanged it fighting."
"What about forge-welding it?" Kael asked.
The dwarf looked surprised. "So ye know a bit about smithing?"
"A bit," Kael said. "I've done minor repairs on enchanted weapons—edging, replacing grips, replating."
The dwarf was less impressed now. "Eh, all that's more like jewelsmithing." He folded his arms. "It's true, a forge weld is much much stronger, but it's for plain slabs o' untempered metal that can take the upset and the scarfin' and the repeated heatin'. Do any a' that to a blade like this and you'll ruin it for sure."
"There's no other option?"
"Well, with some old swords, family heirlooms and such, I'd say to make a cast, then melt 'er down and reforge from scratch, but I wouldn't do that here—not only because your sword looks to be two or three different metals layered together, but because you'd lose all the elvenscript. Unless that's something you kin put back?"
"No," Kael said. What had been inscribed on the sword had been a lie: Whosoever wields the fire / shall never fall.
"Shame that is. It's a lost art." The dwarf sighed. "Sadly, there's just no reliable way to make a sword like this battle-worthy again."
"I don't need it battle-worthy," Kael said. "I only want it to be—" There was a sudden lump of grief in his throat; he swallowed it down. "I just want it to be whole again."
"Well... if that's all you want, might as well try soldering. A mix of truesteel and truesilver might do the trick. If it doesn't take, you'll have to go with a forge weld and try to get it done in a single heat, as hot as you kin make it without meltin'. And minimal hammerin'." The dwarf twisted a hank of his beard and said thoughtfully, "Might be able to protect the script with a clay and flux paste…"
"I trust your judgement," Kael said. "Whatever you think will work best."
"Oh, you were wanting me to do the work?" The dwarf held up his hands and shook his head. "No, no, I can't."
"This sword is Felo'melorn," Kael said, unable to comprehend the dwarf's refusal. "It belonged to my father Anasterian, last High King of Quel'Thalas, who was murdered by Arthas Menethil and his undead army. The cloth I had wrapped around the sword is a remnant of the brocade used to make my mother's funeral shroud." He clenched his teeth; when he was able to go on, he said, "It's all I have left of them. Name your price: I'll empty Silvermoon's treasury."
The dwarf looked appalled. "I heard stories about King Anasterian from my great-gran," he said apologetically. "I'd like to help you, yer highness, really I would, but all requests for my services have to be approved by the High Commander."
"General Garithos, you mean."
"That's right. Grand Marshal Garithos or one a' his seconds."
Kael knew that such approval was unlikely. "If Garithos can't—" he almost said 'won't'— "spare you to do the work, would you allow me to make use of your forge and tools? Only when they're idle, of course; I'm afraid my camp isn't as yet provisioned."
"Oh, absolutely," the dwarf said. "It'd be an honor to work on such a blade. You kin tell 'em I said so; might carry some weight."
"I'm not sure I understand you," Kael said carefully. "Do you mean that although I have brought forces to fight under the Alliance banner, and I and my people will likely die defending human lands, I must get the permission of the Grand Marshal to work in an Alliance smithy?"
Skorgrim sighed and wouldn't meet Kael's eyes. "Afraid so."
"I see." Kael re-wrapped the sword. "Any advice on what I might do to earn Garithos' favor?" He knew he sounded bitter; he didn't care.
"Aside from bein' a human instead of an elf?" Skorgrim said with a pained half-grin. "He blames elves for the death of his father and the family vassals in the last war, yeh see, even though everyone knows it was orcs that attacked Blackwood. He probably think that if he had been there instead of off fighting on the Quel'Thalas border he'd've come off the hero, single-handedly defeatin' the invaders and savin' his town, which is nonsense, but people believe what they want to believe. Not the type to question himself, he isn't." Skorgrim pursed his lips, as if regretting he'd been so frank. "So he's got that against yer kind, for a start. Not much ye kin do about it."
"True."
"He's not too fond of magic-users, either. Might want to hide those bits of green sparkle keepin' ye company."
Kael reached inside the collar of his robe and pulled out the small bag holding the gem created by his phoenix -avatar. As he put the crystal from the core of each verdant sphere into the bag, he tried not to think about how demeaning it was for him to go so far to make himself acceptable to Garithos—but then again, what choice did he have? The humans held the power in this situation: to pretend otherwise was foolish. "I appreciate the advice," he told Skorgrim.
"Good luck!" the dwarf said with forced cheer.
Kael trudged back to the command tent, but when he asked the helmeted guard at the entrance if he could speak to Garithos, he was told that the Grand Marshal was currently too busy to see him. When Kael said that he'd wait, he was informed he'd have to put his name on the list of petitioners.
Kael swallowed his anger at this new insult and asked for the list. The guards, apparently unprepared for this response, hastily produced a piece of blank parchment. Kael signed his name using Common script rather than Thalassian; he was then kept waiting outside the tent long enough for a small crowd to gather. As humiliating as this treatment was, Kael was determined to keep his goal in mind. When he was at last motioned inside, he had to suppress a laugh. Behind the command table—which was on a high dais—Garithos sat in an enormous, throne-like chair of dark wood. The Grand Marshal had exchanged the utilitarian armor he'd worn in the past for a gleaming, highly ornamented golden set. One more reason for him to resent me, Kael thought. True royalty is a matter of bloodline and deportment, not furniture and costume.
"My apologies for importuning you, Grand Marshal," Kael said as deferentially as he was able once Garithos acknowledged his presence by making eye contact, "but I have come to ask if you would allow me to use the camp smithy for an hour or so to repair—my sword." It seemed prudent not to mention dead fathers. "I have spoken to Mastersmith Skorgrim, and he is agreeable; all that is required is your permission."
Garithos stared at Kael for long moments, his mouth twisted into a faint smirk, then began to lazily pick between his teeth with a fingernail. "No, I don't want any weird metals around our honest iron and steel," he said. "Who knows what effect it would have on them?"
Kael had anticipated this refusal; the hour he had just spent standing in the Silverpine rain had given him time to come up with a counter-proposal. "Might we attempt to salvage the blacksmith shop in Dalaran, then?" Kael asked. "The forge and anvil there likely are still serviceable, and as its a considerable distance from here, you needn't worry about any adverse—"
"No," Garithos said, flicking away whatever piece of food he had retrieved. "I can't spare anyone."
"My apologies for not being clear," Kael said, trying to remain patient. "Your soldiers need not trouble themselves with such a laborious and menial task; my people will do the work of clearing the rubble."
"The ruins are crawling with undead," said stern-looking man standing to Garithos' right. "It's far too dangerous."
"We are more than willing to undertake the task of putting the former citizens of Dalaran to rest," Kael said, then added, "It will allow us to make a useful contribution to your reconstruction effort on those days when we are not needed elsewhere."
"I had a feeling you'd find some excuse for going back there," Garithos said. "You think I'm going to let you traipse around unsupervised and destroy evidence?" He chuckled. "I don't think so."
"Evidence?" Kael asked. "Evidence of what?"
"I've always found it awfully suspicious," Garithos said, "that you and all 'your people' left before it was destroyed." He turned to address the stern-looking man. "What was it that flattened the city, Saxon?"
"Magic, sir," Saxon said dutifully.
"Odd, isn't it, that so many non-human mages left right before the disaster?" Garithos said, as if pondering. "And wasn't there some artifact after the Second War that concentrated magic?"
"The Eye of Dalaran," Saxon supplied. "Allegedly stolen right after the city was rebuilt."
Rage began to unfurl as Kael realized what Garithos was insinuating. "Dalaran was my home for hundreds of years," Kael said tightly. "I and 'my people' would have defended it with our lives—have defended, it, as we have defended Lordaeron—but the day it was destroyed, we were battling through the undead on our way to Silvermoon, where we had to burn the corpses of tens of thousands of our citizens slain by Arthas and his army. No doubt in retaliation for the help we've given the Alliance." Kael regretted this last the instant he said it.
The faintest of smiles twitched Garithos' lips, as if he was pleased that he had caused Kael to speak of something so painful. "It's always been a human city," he said, "so what's left of it is therefore off-limits to non-humans." He then picked up a piece of paper and pretended to read it, signalling that the audience was over. "Of course, if you don't like our rules, you're free to go back to Quel'Thalas."
Not trusting himself to speak further without doing irreparable harm, Kael brushed past Garithos' soldiers and out of the tent, where he ran into Skorgrim, the gray-bearded dwarf blacksmith. "I asked," Kael said tightly. "He said no."
"I heard," the dwarf muttered. "Come wi' me."
"Why?" Kael had had his fill of bowing and scraping to non-elves for the day; there was no civility left in him.
Skorgrim walked away without answering; curious, Kael followed.
After a meandering route, Skorgrim stopped at last next to a tarp-covered wagon on the outskirts of the encampment, not far from his smithy. "Quite a few abandoned farmsteads down south," he said abruptly. "Some might have anvils and forges."
Anvils and forges. "Driven out of their homes by the undead?"
"Some ran from the plague," Skorgrim said. "Folks at Ambermill and Pyrewood were too stubborn, dug in instead. Been holding on as best they can, but might appreciate some help, even if it comes from non-humans." Skorgrim's contempt for the term—which by definition included dwarves—was clear.
"How fortuitous," Kael said. "I was just thinking that it might be useful to establish a base camp in that area."
"Not that anyone's orderin' ye to, of course," Skorgrim said.
"Of course," Kael said. "Only the Grand Marshal can give me orders."
Skorgrim's lips twitched as if he were suppressing a smile. "I thought as much. Good thing we ran into each other; since yer leavin' I have an excuse to show off me supply wagon." He lifted up the canvas. "I'd like ta' direct yer attention to the sealed bucket o' blackrock flux and the two boxes o' charcoal in the corner."
"Yes, I can see them," Kael said. "Very high quality materials, are they?"
"Damn right they are. Quality blackchar, not that garbage that's half ash and dirt." Skorgrim nodded emphatically, then murmured as if saying nothing of consequence, "Most o' the camp sits down for afternoon mess in a bit. No one comes down this way for a good quarter-hour."
"Is that so?" Kael replied just as quietly. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but you risk being reprimanded."
Skorgrim gave a snort that was surprisingly eloquent. "I'll tell you something, Prince Kael'thas; I've done some thinking since you made yer request this morning, and when I heard what was happenin' during yer meeting I decided that, from where I'm pissin', if I've paid for a bucket of flux with my money I can do with it as I please. If I want to toss it in the river, or rub it on me belly, or even give it to someone, well, that's my choice and no one else's. Anyone gets a stick up their arse about that an' tries to reprimand me'll be hikin' down to Ironforge for their repairs."
Kael nodded, his faith in non-elves somewhat restored. He started to pull his gold-pouch from his pocket, but Skorgrim said sternly, "Put that away. Fix Anasterian's sword. That'll be payment enough." As he made an unnecessary adjustment to the tarp covering his wagon, he added, "If ye really have an itch to throw money at someone, my cousins in the Explorers' Guild can supply tents. They'll be used, and likely they'll need mending, but they'll be cheap."
And so, as it turned out, not everything about existence in Silverpine was entirely unpleasant.
As the days passed and Kael and his forces fought their way south along the road that ran through Silverpine, trying to find a suitable place to make their base camp, they discovered that Skorgrim had spoken truly: there were indeed many abandoned houses and farms in the area west and southwest of Lordamere Lake. Unfortunately, most were too small, too dilapidated, or too exposed to be suitable.
At last Theraldis located one that seemed ideal. West of the main road, almost directly southwest of Dalaran and roughly midway between Ambermill and Pyrewood, the farm had a large fallow field not far from the road. Both the two-story house to the north of the field and the barn and outbuildings to the west were nestled in rocky hills that provided excellent vantage for sentries, while a stand of massive trees served as a windbreak against the clammy breeze coming from the sea. Behind the thickets of overgrown weeds, the buildings, though weathered, appeared to be well-constructed. The mossy tiles of each roof were tight, and the fireplaces were well-bricked.
Although the house had almost enough floor space to accommodate all of them for sleeping, the general feeling was that they should clear the field and pitch tents outside in order to use the ground floor of the house as an infirmary and refectory. While some set upon the field with scythe and fireball, others cleaned wasp nests from the chimneys. Malande, who had ventured upstairs, said that both bedrooms were habitable and had asked Kael to choose which he'd like so that the bedding could be aired out. Kael, thinking of the Grand Marshal and his throne, responded that the beds should be reserved for the ill. "I'll sleep in a tent, like everyone else."
It had been an exhausting first day, but Kael, contemplating the sight just after sunset as the campfire defied the dusk-shrouded woods and burnished the drab canvas of the tents, felt exceptionally moved at what they had accomplished: not only was the camp a tangible first step in the recovery of the sin'dorei, it was also a symbolic refutation of Garithos' scorn.
Someone touched him on the shoulder. Kael looked up to see an unfamiliar elder elf and his assistant, the latter carrying a large bulky bundle of fabric tied with cord.
"Prince Kael'thas," the elder began, "I am Tae'thelan Bloodwatcher, magister-historian. I have a come to beg both forgiveness and permission."
"Why do you need forgiveness?"
"Earlier today, I led a team into the western half of our beloved Silvermoon, thinking to recover items of significant cultural value before the undead could despoil them," he said. "When I found these," he indicated the bundle, "in the ruins of the royal vault, I was seized with inspiration, and conscripted Belloc to help me bring them to you so that I might beg your forgiveness for taking them without your permission."
"And they are…?"
"Ancestor's Day lawn tapestries," Belloc said.
Ancestor's Day.
"I thought they might be put to good use here," Tae'thelan said. "A touch of home, as it were. Might I give a small speech and distribute them to our troops?"
Kael looked at Lana'thel., who gave a small shrug. "If you wish," Kael said.
As Tae'thelan and Belloc moved to the center of the camp, Lana'thel folded her arms and chuckled. "Tae'thelan has either impeccable timing or luck, arriving just after we finished the work of setting up the camp."
"Possibly both," Kael replied as Tae'thelan clapped his hands for attention.
"My brothers and sisters," Tae'thelan said, "like these bedraggled tents that are in such dire need of repair—"
"Shall we find him a needle?" Lana'thel muttered.
"—the outside world may see us as battered and defeated. But like this very camp, these tents can become a tangible reminder of how, nourished by our history and traditions, we will regain the strength we need to reclaim our former glory!" He motioned to Belloc to untie the bundle.
There was a murmuring as the elves realized that the tapestries were the very ones that had once been spread on the lawns of Sunstrider Isle. As they gathered around to examine them, Keleseth commented that the heavy brocade would also do a much better job of keeping out the chill air of the Silverpine nights than pride had been doing.
As Kael watched his people eagerly selecting tapestries for their tents—"It's not just cloth," Tae'thelan was saying, "it's a piece of our heritage!"—he decided that there was no need to chastise Bloodwatcher for scavenging in the royal vaults. His intentions had been pure, even if his actions were questionable. And after all, perhaps he was right; perhaps the tapestries would help their people, the brave, beautiful survivors, to rise above their grief, guilt, and despair, even if just for a moment, and to forget that for each of the living there were nine dead.
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The next day's dawn seemed to be a harbinger of a brighter future: no clouds smothered the rising sun, and the early morning ground fog dissipated quickly in a golden glow. Kael and his people gathered in the center of the camp to discuss what they would do that day. Lana'thel and Tenris were headed north to check mission assignments at Garithos' command post. Freywinn asked for volunteers to help him assess the degree of contamination in the area's plants, animals, and water; Pathaleon said he would be inventorying the supplies on hand and making lists of what was needed—Eldin had been right, there really were people who genuinely enjoyed managing logistical details—and Andorath said he would lead a squad out to do general reconnaissance of the area.
By the time Kael had spoken to each of the departing squads, he noticed that Selin and Atherann were building a lean-to—with materials they had salvaged from the farm's decrepit granary—to shelter his clandestine smithy from the rain and clammy sea breezes. Touched by this gesture, Kael decided that he would use the time until Lana'thel returned with their orders from Garithos to begin repairs on Felo'melorn.
After tying his hair back, Kael set out tongs, hammer, and a pair of heavy leather gloves. Exchanging his robe for a blacksmithing apron, he scooped a bucket of rain water from the leaf-strewn horse trough and set it near the forge for quenching and fire control. Nodding with satisfaction—the forge, recovered from the charred remains of an abandoned farm further east, was badly rusted in one corner but otherwise serviceable—Kael pried open one of the boxes that they had taken from Skorgrim; atop the charcoal was a folded paper containing a dozen or so small dark blue pellets. Toss one on the fire, the paper said. Spits when coals are ready. Sparks when metal is ready.
Smiling faintly at the dwarf's thoughtfulness, Kael began to load the forge with charcoal. Ironic that not long ago he would have, without effort, produced a magical fire at least as hot as what was now going to take him nearly an hour of careful work to create in the forge. Not that he couldn't conjure fire if he wanted to: no, he was choosing not to. It was his way of taking back control of the condition that Arthas had forced upon him.
In the days immediately following the Sunwell's defilement, Kael had found using magic more and more painful, as if his blood was slowly being flooded with shards of glass. Though no one had ever mentioned it, Kael was certain that everyone had suffered to some degree: if it was true that he had been affected more than most, well, that was the privilege and burden he bore as a Sunstrider and leader of his people. In addition to giving him a poignant moment of empathy for his late brother—Kael didn't want fussy old uncles hovering over him either—it had underscored how very much his people had taken effortless magic for granted. Performing the channeling ritual with Rommath and Astalor to burn away the corrupted waters of the Sunwell, using the three mooncrystals that had once sustained Ban'dinoriel—which would have been a taxing spell even in brighter days—had been almost unbearably agonizing in his darkened state; fortunately, the ritual had been successful, and even though Kael had been incapacitated for days afterward, it had marked the end of his pain.
Unfortunately, it had soon become clear that an empty Sunwell was only marginally better than a polluted one. Once the ley-lines threading through the land became the primary source of magical power, all but minor spells required an unusual amount of concentration, and magic simply became too difficult for most. Kael, who had noticed immediately that the mooncrystals used in the ritual—their natural radiance tinted by their past exposure to Scourge magic—retained faint traces of the arcane despite their near-destruction. He was reminded of the research he had done in Dalaran on the storage and focusing of magical energy, and thought that if he could recharge the crystals, restore them to even a fraction of their former power, they would serve him well on the day when he would at last face Arthas. The thought of Arthas being consumed by a pillar of fire proved to be an excellent motivator: from that day onward Kael stopped using non-essential magic, daily pouring whatever power he had into the crystals. If he wanted to travel, he rode; when he was hungry or thirsty, he either sought out non-conjured food or did without; when he fought, if feasible he used sword and staff instead of fireball… and now, when he needed to heat metal to malleability, instead of using a fire spell, he lit a pile of charcoal with kindling and worked the bellows to provide a steady flow of air into the heart of the nascent fire.
Crude, yet satisfying.
Within minutes, his skin was prickling from the heat; by the quarter-hour mark, the muscles in his arms and legs had begun to ache from the unfamiliar effort of powering a bellows. None of this mattered; he was fulfilling the silent vow he had made at Anasterian's funeral pyre: to hunt down and punish Arthas Menethil for his crimes, and to repair both the runeblade Felo'melorn and their people. When the blue pellet that Skorgrim had given him began to crackle and hiss, Kael embedded the broken ends of the sword deep in the yellow-orange coals, expecting at any moment to see the bright blue sparks that would indicate that the metal was hot enough to be malleable.
As the hours went by, Kael continued to work the bellows, stopping only to add more charcoal to the edges of the forge, but no blue sparks appeared. Thinking perhaps the pellet was defective, Kael pulled one of the halves of the sword from the coals. The metal, far from being the bright red-orange he expected, had barely changed color at all.
As he worked the broken ends of the sword back into the coals, he saw that Lana'thel had returned. The early afternoon light glinted off the sword she held loosely at her side: Quel'Delar, which had once belonged to her friend Thalorien. Kael had heard that she had carved through a dozen undead to reach where his body lay trampled into the mud and ash of the southern shore of Quel'Danas, and that she had defended his corpse until she had collapsed, senseless with grief and exhaustion. She had had rarely been seen without the sword since. Kael knew she must blame him when she looked at Quel'Delar and saw a reminder of who and what had been lost. If only I had made different choices, Kael's nightly self-censure ran, if only I interpreted the signs correctly, I could have saved them all. If he had gone to Silvermoon's aid immediately, he might have stopped Dar'Khan and saved the Convocation and Ban'dinoriel. If he had fought alongside his father, Anasterian would not have fallen, and neither would the Sunwell… Kael was aware that such thoughts accomplished nothing beyond refreshing his guilt, but he couldn't stop himself any more than Lana'thel could put Quel'Delar aside.
She had noticed him working, and was headed toward him. There was a time, Kael reflected, when he wouldn't have allowed anyone but Eldin to see him this way, sweating and grimy and half-undressed, but such considerations no longer mattered. It bothered him more that she was going to witness his inability to repair Felo'melorn, but then again she had already witnessed a number of his failures.
"How goes the repair?" she asked. She was eyeing him with a mix of amusement and admiration.
"Not as well as I'd hoped," he said. "I haven't been able to heat the metal enough to make it malleable."
"Is there any way to make the coals burn hotter?" Lana'thel asked.
"Short of filling the forge with lava? No." He worked the bellows with one hand while he tossed in the last of the charcoal. "I've accomplished nothing but to burn up two boxes of very good fuel."
"Could I try that?" she asked, indicating the bellows. "It looks like fun."
"If you wish," Kael said as he stepped aside. "It's less enjoyable after the first hour."
"There have to be books on runeblade repair somewhere," Lana'thel said, at first working the bellows so vigorously that a cascade of sparks leapt up.
Kael used an iron poker to redistribute the coals. "There might have been some in Dalaran's libraries; many of the works there were one of a kind."
"All lost now," she said sadly.
"So it seems."
"Is it true that Garithos accused us of destroying the city?" she asked, now moving the bellows more slowly.
"He did. He also insinuated that Felo'melorn would somehow pollute any weapons present in the Alliance smithy."
She looked outraged. "How did you keep from incinerating him?"
"I kept in mind that attacking him would not help our cause."
"True," Lana'thel said. "Still… if you could have given him the response he deserved, what would you have said?"
Kael pulled the two halves of the sword from the coals and stared at them as if considering his answer, but in truth he'd already spent more time than he wanted to admit to imagining what he would have liked to have said to the Grand Marshal. "This 'weird elf metal' is the runeblade Felo'melorn, I would have told him. Forged a hundred human lifetimes ago, it was wielded by my father, and his father before him, and by every High Elf king since Dath'remar himself. Felo'melorn has slain countless thousands of demons, trolls, orcs, and undead: if your honest steel and iron could talk, it would bow and tremble before this regal blade…" Kael set the pieces of the broken sword carefully on the anvil.
"I'd give anything to hear you say that to him," she said fervently, stepping back from the bellows at last. "I think we all would."
Kael felt somewhat embarrassed, as the speech had sounded far nobler in this thoughts than when spoken aloud. Still, if Lana'thel liked it… "You were gone longer than I expected you'd be," he said through the clouds of steam as he began to douse water on the coals. "Did Garithos keep you waiting?"
"Of course, and all for nothing. We aren't even on the duty roster yet."
"I'm sorry that they wasted your time." He set the water bucket down and, feeling slightly improper, took off his blacksmith apron.
"What is that around your neck?" Lana'thel asked. "You've never struck me as the amulet type."
Kael touched the small leather bag that had been hidden under the bib of the apron. "The gem," he said. "From… when I transformed." He hung the apron on a nail. "I'll make a proper setting for it when I have time."
"Wouldn't it be better to put it away somewhere for safekeeping?"
"No," he said. "I'd rather keep it near me, as a reminder." He pulled on his robe. "Freywinn says the area is being called 'The Scorched Grove' now. Treants and angry spirits attack anyone who comes near."
"But you didn't mean to destroy the forest," she said. "Did you?"
"No, but my intentions don't matter," he said. "Only my actions and their consequences."
She moved around the forge and stood close to him. "Be careful with this," she said, putting her hand on his chest, over the now-hidden amulet. "I wouldn't want it to be lost. The way… hers was."
"I'll be careful," he said. He knew she was referring to Sylvanas' necklace, which had been found on the road that led from Fairbreeze to Silvermoon. Kael was aware that most of his people had chosen to believe that Sylvanas had lost it days before the invasion; it was a willful delusion he understood, for it was too painful to imagine the chain breaking and the necklace falling to the ground at the moment that Arthas struck her down and ripped out her soul.
"Was the Spire still unoccupied?" he asked. Although she had not talked about it, he had suspected that Lana'thel and Sarannis had returned the necklace to Windrunner Spire before they left Quel'Thalas.
"A few of Kel'Thuzad's cultists were skulking," she said. She rested her hand on Quel'Delar's hilt. "We hid it on the top floor near one of the sleeping alcoves."
"Perhaps some day her spirit will return to the Spire and find peace," Kael said softly.
"I hope for that as well," Lana'thel said. "To wander the world in such a form, trapped between death and life… what a horrible fate."
Lana'thel looked away from him, and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. He was so taken aback by the depth of her emotion that he could think of no words to comfort her, and so he stood there silently until she spared him further discomfiture by walking out toward where Selin, Tenris, Astalor, and a half-dozen others sat on benches near the central campfire's cookpot. After a moment, he followed her.
"Where are we fighting tomorrow?" Sandoval asked.
Lana'thel made a soft irritated sound as she ladled herself a bowl of stew and took a piece of stale dwarven ale-bread. "They said they had nothing for us to do, which is absurd," she said. "I know they've had casualties; clearly we could supplement their forces." She sat and ate for a few moments before asking him, "As we don't yet have an official mission to kill undead, should we continue to kill them unofficially?"
"Of course," Kael said, taking the empty spot beside her. "It is what needs to be done."
"Will you be my battle-partner?" she asked, leaning against his shoulder in a most enjoyable fashion.
"I look forward to slaughtering with you," he replied, taking her gesture to mean that she had already forgiven him. The thought made him almost happy for the first time in months, and he wished he could talk to Eldin about his friendship with her.
"How are we going to prove our worth to the Alliance if they never send us on any missions?" Selin asked angrily.
"We can't force them to use us," Theraldis said. "Unfortunately, we'll have to wait until they realize they need us."
"I certainly hope that happens before they're desperate. Or we are."
Tenris said, "Lieutenant Swift told Lana to come back after sunset, saying that he was sure 'something would open up' by then."
"Open up?" Keleseth asked. "Surely he didn't mean—?"
"He meant his breeches," Lana'thel said, poking listlessly at her stew before setting it aside. "Apparently some of Garithos' men find elves less objectionable if they have breasts."
Kael was outraged. "That's—how dare he say such a thing?" He stood and began to pace. "Allies or not, we must make it clear that we will not tolerate such an appalling behavior, even if it means we sit in our tents for twenty years!"
"I'll take Lana'thel's place in checking the postings with you from now on," Selin said to Tenris.
"No need," Tenris told him. "Swift and the others are barking dogs. They know quite well they would taste Quel'Delar if they ever tried to bite." He grinned at Lana'thel. "I almost wish they'd try: it would be a joy to watch you swat them down."
Late afternoon began to shade into sunset. Andorath returned to camp and said that their search of the caves in the area had yielded no signs of undead; Freywinn reported that he had found several diseased animals—both predator and prey species—but that the area's vegetation still seemed resistant. Sandoval, who had led a squad south, described scouting a fortified village whose inhabitants had shot at them, and beyond it a towering wall.
Fatigued by the day's blacksmithing efforts, Kael was considering turning in early when a group of a two dozen or so humans emerged from the woods to the east of the farm, then began to hurry across the road toward the camp.
As Kael and the others rose from their seats around the campfire, a bearded man—who along with a red-haired woman seemed to be leading the group of humans—spoke. "Thank the Light! We heard that there was a company of Alliance soldiers in the area." He, like several others in his group, wore a ragged Kirin Tor initiate's tunic.
"You're from Dalaran?" Kael asked.
"Yes," the man said. "Most of us are—well, were. It was only by accident that we escaped the disaster; Amelia and I had taken a group to Ambermill to investigate some curious phenomena—"
"William," the woman said, "the matter at hand?"
"Oh, right. Sorry, Amelia!" He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "We've come to ask for your help. Our settlement at Ambermill has been invaded by undead!"
"They've always come singly before, which we can handle," Amelia said. In contrast to William, she was calm, with a firm, authoritative voice. "This time, however, there were six or seven of them—"
"No, at least a dozen," William interjected. "I'm not ashamed to admit that we panicked," he said.
"What's important is that you got everyone out safely," Atherann said.
"I didn't see the Tayuses," William said to Amelia.
"Barricaded in their house, most likely," Amelia grumbled. "Stubborn grumpy fools."
"We can get them out," Vanthryn offered, glancing at the sliver of sunset that remained.
"Thank you," William said with a sigh. "Amelia and I are up for fighting, but the rest are pretty rattled. Is there a corner where they could hunker down until we come back? The barn will do."
"There is no room in the barn," Andorath said. "Would the house be an adequate substitute?"
"Oh… of course." The human seemed quite nonplussed, as if he hadn't expected kindness from elves.
"Bill and I are going back for Krieg and Sonia Tayus," Amelia announced. "The rest of you get inside; it'll be safe here." As the crowd filed into the house Amelia said briskly, "I'd advise against torches and glow-lights; no reason to warn them we're coming."
As they hurried toward the darkening woods, Kael mused that, as unpleasant as it was fighting undead during the day, fighting them at dusk, when they'd be visible only as faint white smears in the darkness, promised to be five times as onerous. Fortunately, the nine undead at Ambermill were risen ghouls rather than the deadly abominations, spiders, and skeletal soldiers of Arthas' army; defeating them was quickly accomplished. Perhaps it was simply the urgency of their task, but Kael felt his magic flowing more easily than it had since the invasion.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Astalor said to him as he incinerated the ghoul remains. "There's something here, something powerful. Raw magical energy."
"An offshoot of the ley-lines that lead into Dalaran," Kael replied quietly. Not surprising, then, that the Dalaran survivors had settled here.
William had run to a cottage and begun to pound on the door. "Sonia! Krieg! It's William!" he shouted. "The undead are gone!"
The door opened a crack.
"We've gone to the Alliance base camp for the night," William said to the hidden couple. "In case the undead come back."
"If the danger's passed, we don't see any reason to leave our home to stay with strangers!" came the whispered reply.
"Strangers?" Amelia snapped back. "You'd be with all of us!"
The door shut; the sound of a heavy bolt followed.
"Suit yourself," she said angrily as William put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her away.
As they headed back to Kael's encampment, Andorath said, "I wonder where those undead came from? We didn't see any when we scouted the area."
"I think they came from Dalaran," a young man said. "Some say there are hundreds in the ruins there."
"Did so many perish?" Kael asked. It was a sorrowful thought, that once again he'd have to give a second death to so many he might have known in life. "If that is true, your settlement is likely to be overrun again." If Dalaran's fatalities had risen as undead, it suggested that Kel'Thuzad—and Arthas—had been responsible for that as well.
"If the undead come again, we'll cross the river and ask Pyrewood to take us in for a bit," Amelia said. "Baron Silverlaine is said to be a good man."
"I hope you're right," Lana'thel said. She was looking back over her shoulder, in the direction of Ambermill.
Kael turned to see that the forest behind them was filled with what looked like white mist; dozens of white blurs were following them.
"We couldn't have missed that many!" Sandoval protested.
"It must be a second wave of attackers," Vanthryn said.
"That family—" Lana'thel began.
"If that many shamblies went through Ambermill," Amelia said, scowling as she began to send arcane blasts at the undead, "they surely made enough noise that the Tayusess knew to keep their door locked.' Her words were heartless, but her expression was anguished. "I'm sure they're fine. It's a sturdy cottage with a sturdy door."
They reached the edge of the woods and began to hurry across the wide verge toward the road that separated them from the farm. "William," Kael asked, "could you and Amelia go ahead and help our base camp prepare for evacuation? We'll hold back the undead."
"Of course," William said. "We'll load only what is essential. Uncontaminated foodstuffs and water, ammunition... "
"Let's just go, Will!" Amelia said, pulling at his arm and starting to run. "They know we know what to do!"
Kael and the others spread themselves in a line along the road and waited. He thought he could hear—or perhaps it was only his imagination—faint shouts as the alarm was given at their camp.
"We haven't seen that before," Valanar said, pointing off to their left at a faint column of silvery light, barely visible on the road to the north.
Kael glanced at the woods. "We have other concerns," he said as the ghouls became visible between the trees. "We can investigate when we've dispatched these undead."
This second wave of undead seemed more aggressive than those they had encountered at Ambermill, oddly relentless in their march toward the base camp at the farm. More than once the elves were forced to retreat toward the road to avoid being surrounded, but at last they were victorious.
Kael and the others glanced northward toward the column of light as they hurried across the road. Was the column closer now, or was that simply a trick of the moonlight? No matter.
Kael was pleased to see that the farm's two wagons had been loaded with blankets, spare tents, and foodstuffs. Astalor—once again using blood magic—was casting protective wards on each. Most of the rest of the camp was busy taking down their tents and preparing to march along with the refugees.
"Your people gave us half your food," Amelia told Kael. "We can't take that much."
"You can't show up at Pyrewood empty-handed," Andorath said calmly. "Even if the Baron is as generous as you say, his resources may be strained after so many months of fighting the Scourge."
"But what will you—"
"We'll take enough from Ambermill to replace what we've given you," Atherann assured her.
As last minute supplies were being loaded onto the wagons, Freywinn said, "Is that… a sabercat mount?"
Kael turned to see what he was talking about.
The column of light had reached the northeastern perimeter of the farm, and had left the road to move across the field toward them. Two shapes moved within the light: one walking, the other riding a huge white and black striped tiger.
"Kaldorei…" Freywinn sounded entirely awestruck.
Tae'thalen scowled faintly. "Kaldorei? What would they be doing here?" Tae'thalen knew, as did Kael, that it was disagreement with the druidic kaldorei over the use of arcane magic after the Sundering that had caused Kael's ancestor Dath'remar and the Highborne survivors he led to be banished from their homeland more than seven thousand years ago. Ever since, the elves of Eastern Kingdom and the elves in Kalimdor had viewed each other with distrust and contempt; as the millennia passed, the kaldorei and quel'dorei had diverged in culture as well as appearance, and this, combined with the reclusiveness of kaldorei society, meant that few high elves had ever been face to face with their distant cousins from across the sea. Now and again Kael had received letters in Dalaran from night elves who claimed to be mages and who expressed interest in joining the Kirin Tor, but whenever he had responded to such letters the communication had gone ominously silent.
"We'll soon find out," Kael said.
As the rider came nearer, Kael saw that she was stunningly beautiful, with violet skin, long blue-green hair, and glittering, diaphanous robes. A silvery crescent diadem marked her as a priestess of the moon, but in all his reading about kaldorei religion Kal had never come across anything that would explain why the priestess seemed to be wrapped in a glowing mist that rose into the night like smoke. The priestess' companion, apparently also female, wore imposing armor and a heavy green cloak, and carried a lethal-looking circular weapon. A crested helm hid her hair and most of her face.
Formidable, both of them.
"Ishnu-alah, night elves," Kael said, hoping that his Darnassian was properly accented. "I am Prince Kael'thas. I am surprised to see your kind here, for this land offers only death and shadow." He wondered, as soon as he had said this, if they would take his words as a veiled threat; he certainly hoped they would not.
"Ishnu-dal-dieb, Kael'thas," the armored warrior replied politely. "I am Maiev Shadowsong, and this is Tyrande Whisperwind. We are hunting a powerful demon that recently arrived in this land."
Kael glanced at the others. Every one of them looked as if they were feeling the same mixture of astonishment and anxiety that Kael was feeling. He doubted that any of them had ever met a kaldorei before either; to have these two appear so inexplicably, and to be treating the encounter so casually, as if the two races interacted every day, was in and of itself astounding.
"A demon? We haven't seen any demons," Kael said, "but something seems to be driving the undead out of Dalaran. We are in the midst of helping the inhabitants of Ambermill relocate to the nearby village of Pyrewood."
"Then we shall lend you our aid, young Kael," Tyrande said. Her voice was softer and more melodious than Maiev's, but nevertheless had the authoritative confidence of someone who not only was accustomed to command, but who expected her commands to be obeyed without question.
"Wait! We have no time for this!" Maiev said to Tyrande.
Ignoring this outburst, Tyrande continued, "Perhaps once your people are safe, you will help us hunt the demon we seek?"
"It would be an honor," Kael replied. He was beginning to understand Freywinn's starstruck expression.
"We'd better move quickly," said Vanthryn. Across the road, a third wave of at least a hundred undead poured from the forest like grain spilling through a sieve.
Lana'thel turned to face the enemy. "Go ahead," she said. "The rest of us will make a stand here."
"No," Kael said. "We must stay together. It will take all of us to protect the wagons and ensure these people get to Pyrewood."
Atherann put his hand on Lana'thel's shoulder. "It's not heroic," he told her, "but it's more prudent."
'We'll outrun them," Vorath said.
"They're not pursuing us," Andorath said, settling a stack of tents against the side of the wagon to shield the refugees. "We were simply in their path before."
"Where are your draft animals?" Tyrande asked. "The horses to pull the wagons?"
Astalor pushed up his sleeves. "Unlike four-legged beasts, my arms never tire." He reopened one of the incisions he'd made during the previous battle, then channeled a spell onto the wagons. After a moment they creaked, levitated slightly, then began to move.
"Blood magic," Maiev said. The utter contempt in her voice was chilling. Tyrande was silent, but her radiance dimmed so suddenly that Kael took it as disapproval.
"Let's move out!" Vanthryn said.
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Even with Astalor's magic moving the wagons, it was slow going in the darkness, travelling as they were over uneven, unfamiliar terrain. Still, it seemed Andorath had been right; the undead were not pursuing.
"We are wasting time here, Tyrande," Maiev said, loud enough to be overheard. "We should be out looking for Illidan!"
"These people need our help, Maiev," Tyrande replied. "Their brethren aided us against the Legion, and so we must honor that debt now."
"They don't need our help! There are hundreds of thousands of Highborne here!"
"You have been misinformed," Kael said. "Sadly, we have few warriors left, thanks to the Scourge. They devoured Quel'Thalas, obliterating many once-proud families. The few of us that remain call ourselves 'blood elves' in homage to our murdered people."
"I grieve for your people, Kael," Tyrande said. "But you must not allow rage and despair to poison your heart. You may yet lead your people to a brighter future."
Easily said, Kael thought. Not so easily done.
"Finally!" said Amelia as intermittent flashes of firelight began to appear high in the darkness. "Those are the Pyrewood watchtowers. Once we get across the river, we'll be at their main gate."
The bridge across the river was hidden by a simple illusion; once it was dispelled, they began to move the wagons across.
"Why was the bridge concealed?" Tyrande asked.
"The undead seem reluctant to cross flowing water," Valanar said.
"Ah."
"We've escorted you here, as you asked," Maiev said. "Surely now—"
But she never finished that sentence, for it was at that moment that undead began to emerge from the shadows along their side of the riverbank. Within moments, a hundred or more were converging on the newly-visible bridge.
"Hurry the wagons across to the gates of Pyrewood!" Tyrande said. "I will stay behind and prevent the undead from crossing!"
"That's very noble of you, priestess," Maiev said, "but you're no match for so many!""
"The goddess is my shield, warden," Tyrande said with absolute conviction. "Elune will grant me the strength!"
Maiev made a disgusted sound and raced across the bridge.
What happened next was a display of power on a scale Kael had not often seen. Tyrande stood in the center of the bridge, and as the swarm of undead drew near her, she held up her arms. A circle of moonlight rippled out from her, and the undead illuminated by it stopped as if mesmerized. An instant later, a shower of blazing white lights rained down upon them, obliterating every ghoul in sight.
Unfortunately, the spell had a destructive effect on the bridge as well, for after a moment there was the hideous sound of splintering wood. Before Kael could even shout a warning the bridge shattered, tossing Tyrande into the swirling waters.
"Merciful goddess!" she cried, and then she sank under the inky surface of the water.
"We must hurry to save her!" Kael said, rushing to the riverbank. There was no sign of the priestess. "That current will take her straight into the heart of the undead lands!"
Maiev gripped his arm. "No, Kael. Tyrande was a soldier; she knew the risks she took. We have a greater mission to accomplish now, and the time grows short." She pulled him back from the riverbank. "Your people are now safe, as you requested. Uphold your end of the bargain; help me find the demon I seek."
"Your priestess was just lost! This is how you grieve for her?"
"She was Elune's priestess, not mine," Maiev said coldly, but then she bowed her head. "I am sorry, Prince Kael'thas. I should not expect you to understand the demands of our goddess."
Kael didn't know if there truly was such a difference between the kaldorei and sin'dorei response to death, or if Maiev was simply trying to manipulate him. "I will send some of my people to search for her; the rest of us will help you finish your hunt."
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The moon had risen by the time the Ambermill refugees were safely inside Pyrewood's gates. Kael joined Vanthryn, Lana'thel, and Maiev in studying a map of the area.
"You're sure your demon is here in Silverpine Forest?" Lana'thel asked.
"Yes."
"Is it aware it's being pursued?"
"Oh yes," Maiev said avidly. "Illidan knows he's hunted. Tell me where you think he could hide."
"We've already scouted the caves and most of the abandoned farmhouses in the area," Vanthryn said.
Maiev shook her head. "Too small. He has a cadre of naga with him. What of Dalaran?"
"The ruins don't offer much cover," Vanthryn said. He tapped the island cluster in the center of Lordamere Lake. "But this… it would be an ideal hiding place for your demon and his naga. Fenris Keep is deserted, well-fortified, and difficult to approach without being seen."
"Leave that to me," Maiev said.
"We'll check Dalaran as well," Kael said. "If nothing else, I want to know what agitated the undead there."
Maiev pointed to a point northeast of Dalaran, near the shore of Lordamere Lake. "I will establish a camp here," she said. "Report to me there."
"Why?"
"Illidan is powerful and extremely treacherous," she warned. "If you should discover his hiding place before I do and attack him without my guidance, you surely will be defeated. Put your forces under my command, however, and victory is assured."
Kael, bristling somewhat at her tone, said, "It is not my intention to rob you of glory, Maiev. I will lead a small group into Dalaran to search for him; whether we find him or not, I will send word to your base. In the meantime, the remainder of my people will remain here in Pyrewood, gathering their strength for the coming battle."
It was obvious that Maiev was not pleased with this answer, but she said only, "Go then, and return to me."
Despite protests that he had already spilled enough of his blood, Astalor opened a portal to the Dalaran outskirts. While a small squad made their way southeast from the portal toward Ambermill to rescue the Tayusess, Kael, Vanthryn, Selin, and Lana'thel spread out along the perimeter of the ruins, planning to work their way inward from a cardinal point.
Kael had been in Dalaran during the Second War, when the orcs had attacked and destroyed a portion of the city's walls and some of the buildings, but this was ten times worse. It was utter destruction: not a single building was intact. Eerily silent except for the carrion-flies, the only movement was the occasional flicker of a rat racing over broken stonework. There were no signs of undead. The wind, fortunately, was mostly quiescent; when it did stir it brought the nauseating stench of rotting flesh.
It was slow, dangerous egress by moonlight, and the hours crept by. The moon was almost directly overhead when Kael recognized a cushion from the couch that had been in his sitting area, and realized that he was looking at what remained of his workshop. Maiev's demon forgotten—after all, it was unlikely that the demon was still in Dalaran—Kael searched through the rubble as best he could, hoping to find at least one or two volumes from his library.
He was startled to find his face wet. How long he had been crying?
He was about to go, accepting that he would find nothing useful, when something crunched under his boot. He bent to look. Now covered with dust, it was the strange piece of metal he had found in the weapon vault on his first day in Dalaran, so many hundreds of years ago. He had never identified what it was made of, never been able to melt or even scratch it, and so it had been relegated to the collection of oddments on the shelf under his worktable. "How strange," Kael murmured as the amulet against his chest grew warm. He put the metal fragment in his pocket.
A moment later, he heard a clattering sound, and Lana'thel appeared. "There's a large black-winged horned demon and four snake-like creatures performing a ritual near the remains of the central square," she said breathlessly. "I think we might have found Maiev's prey."
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When they returned to Pyrewood they found Freywinn, entirely dejected because he'd found no trace of Tyrande. When he asked if he could accompany Kael and Lana'thel to the night elf camp to give the news, Kael didn't have the heart to refuse him.
As they approached the camp they saw Maiev talking to a strange being. He might have been taken for a kaldorei were it not for the stag-like antlers growing from his skull. He turned to them as they approached; his eyes glowed gold.
"An archdruid," Freywinn whispered. "I never thought I'd ever see… Thank you."
"Shan'do, this is Prince Kael'thas," Maiev told the druid, "the ally I spoke of."
"Greetings, great druid," Kael said with a small bow. "We have confirmed that the demon and his minions are indeed in the ruins of Dalaran. They are using a gem-like artifact to perform a ritual."
The archdruid nodded. "The spirits of the land have shown me this as well."
"The gem must be the Eye of Sargeras!" Maiev said. "What are they trying to accomplish by releasing such terrible power?"
"They are striking at the roof of the world," the archdruid said grimly. "Splitting it open. Inflicting excruciating pain upon the earth."
"But why? What do they hope to accomplish?"
"It doesn't matter," the archdruid said. "They won't live long enough to finish their spell. Illidan must be stopped once and for all."
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Next chapter: New alliances and old friends
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first post 20 April 2015; rev 27 October 2016
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A big big thank you to my beta Bryn, who, in addition to being tirelessly meticulous about the small stuff, is also able to keep the big picture in mand and see rough spots and pacing potholes I've missed. (I touched the chapter last, though, so any errors are mine.)
I also want to thank Stinger for the use of Skorgrim the dwarven blacksmith, Denis Frechette for his instructive blacksmithing videos, and Will Kalif of the stormthecastle website for answering some last-minute questions about stoking a forge.
Note for those who look up unfamiliar names: Skorgrim is an OC, as are Garithos' lieutenants and the named Ambermill residents. Everyone else is from canon.
The talented fanartist RinaCane drew Kael'thas the Blacksmith for me; the link to her dA page is in my profile.
Finally, my apologies again for the slow pace! Subscribe to be notified when the next chapter arrives.