Chapter Ten: Divergent Courses

Father,

I am writing you this letter that you might understand the events which have occurred since my departure from Strahnbrad. The plague which has spread throughout the grain caravans by the undead was not meant to slay our people. It was meant to turn them into the undead. When I arrived in Stratholme, I found it infected by the plague. The decision to purge the city was not made lightly, and even as I did so, the people began to transform into the undead.

It was during this that I encountered the demon responsible for all of this, Mal'ganis. Though I attempted to slay him, he evaded me and has fled to Northrend. I am pursuing him now, to put an end to this once and for all.

Do not interfere.

-Arthas

The letter was scrawled, written quickly as if as an afterthought. It was almost a command. King Terenas read it with shaking hands. The reports which had been brought back to him by Uther's forces were shocking. He'd scarcely been able to believe them. And yet with this most recent letter, he had to believe it.

He wondered what horrors his son had seen on the mission he had sent him on. And his mind turned to the warnings of the Prophet. Then his mind returned to what he had recently been doing, and its results. Rolling up the parchment, he tried to maintain his composure as he set it carefully down. Then he leaned back in his seat to look around his office. It was an ornate sort of place.

There were bookcases practically spilling with information on everything from farming, to theories on the afterlife. Beneath his desk were two crossbows, kept ready for use just in case. The windows were tinted so that it was impossible to see whether someone was inside. A suit of armor was to one side, kept in perfect condition though King Terenas hadn't used it in years. In its hands was a fine sword, used to defeat Graymane many years ago. A victory which had sparked the beginnings of Uther Lightbringer's illustrious career.

And for the first time in his life, King Terenas realized he didn't give a damn. He didn't give a damn about his people at this moment. Or about the careful political angling which had been ruined by the purge of Stratholme. He didn't care about the Alliance or the rebuilding of Stormwind. Nothing in that moment mattered except what had happened to his son.

He had somewhere he was supposed to be in an hour. But after the other letter, he had received, delivered by an apologetic elf, he didn't really feel up to it. He didn't know how long he sat there, doing nothing, feeling empty. He knew that, with his Kingdom falling to pieces around him, he should be in a flurry of activity. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

Perhaps an hour later, the door opened and Calia entered looking concerned. 'Father, the Alliance Council is waiting for you. Where have you been?'

'The Alliance Council can go to hell.' said King Terenas, staring up at the ceiling.

'Right,' said Calia, surprised at his apathy. 'well, I'm sure that will uh… go over well in the meeting.'

'The meeting can go to hell!' snapped Terenas as he arose. 'In fact, the whole damn nation can go to hell!'

Calia stepped back, frightened. Terenas became aware he had never shown this side of himself before. The side which had humiliated Genn Graymane in a lightning-swift war. The side which had seen Lordaeron become the dominant power in the north. The closest he'd ever come had been when she had questioned him about marrying her to Daval Prestor. A decision which had been oddly important to him. He'd never wondered why.

'Father,' she said, recovering somewhat, 'why are you doing this?'

King Terenas remembered what it was that had put him in this mood. It was not merely his son's descent into insanity. 'Because I finally received a response from the High Elves of Quel'thalas.' He said in a low tone. 'Do you know what that race of overprivileged parasites has said to my request for reinforcements?'

Calia considered that. 'Well I imagine they-'

Terenas raised a hand for silence, and she fell silent as he paced in circles. 'After due consideration of their debt to Lordaeron, the noble and mysterious High Elves of Silvermoon have assessed the situation and decided to do…' He paused for effect, and let his shoulders drop. 'Nothing.'

There was silence. 'Nothing?' asked Calia. 'But… we lost thousands protecting them. Why would they-'

'Because the life of a few thousand humans is the blink of an eye for them!' snapped King Terenas. 'Because they are a race of cowards and hypocrites! Because the devastation of the nations which have helped them time and time again is tantamount to an anthill being kicked! in their eyes!'

'And because by the time their troops got here...' He looked up at a suit of armor, the years falling upon him at last as he felt older and weaker than he ever had. 'By the time their troops got here, Arthas and Uther will have probably stopped the scourge in its tracks.

'There is, of course, a significant remnant, but its nothing we can't wipe out on our own in a forty-year guerrilla war. The only reason they would have to help us is easing humanities suffering. And it's obvious that means nothing to them. But that's not all, of course.

'Genn Graymane in his usual brand of brainlessness has decided to seal off all the borders to his nation. And embrace a policy of splendid isolation. And it will remain splendid until a disease breaks out inside the packed confines of his self-made prison. Then everyone will die. The fool has yet to realize that you can only fence yourself in. You cannot fence others out.

'In other news, Thoras Trollbane is still bitter about not being given Alterac. So Stromguarde has refused to aid us. Varian has promised to send aid as soon as he can, but that could be years. And Khaz Modan has already sent their forces; they are still recovering from the second war.

'It's strange. It seems like only yesterday that everyone was coming to us for help. Years of helping the other nations as no one else could. And now we are abandoned like an old rag as soon as our alliance is no longer convenient for them.' He reached forward and grasped the sword from the armors hands. Raising its blade up to his nose he turned around. 'So…'

He surged towards the far wall, blade in hand. Calia screamed, mistaking the blade as meant for her and ducked. King Terenas rushed past her. He brought the sword round to slash the ropes holding the banner of the Alliance. The ropes snapped in seconds, and the blue banner floated down to the ground to land at his feet. Throwing the blade aside, he stamped the banner into the dust.

'Damn all of them!' He roared. 'They had best hope that Lordaeron can handle this alone. Because if they are wrong… if the scourge does triumph. I sincerely hope that they suffer as my people have suffered, for their inaction!' He fell forward suddenly, and Calia caught him.

'Father,' said Calia, 'I'm going to cancel the emergency meeting. You need to rest.'

The King regained some of his composure and stood up by his own power, dusting himself of. 'No,' said Terenas, 'no, as far as the Alliance Council is to be concerned, we have heard nothing from the other nations.' He stood up. 'Maybe if we can convince Kael'thas to pull some strings for us, we can shame his idiot Father into doing something for once.' He stood up and spared one final glance at the banner. 'I will have that burned later. If you'll excuse me.'

'Father, maybe I should go in your place.' said Calia. 'You're tired.'

'Not now,' said King Terenas, 'perhaps later.'

Then he walked out the door.

If King Terenas had known that this was how his people would be rewarded for their aid down the road what would he do? Would he have still founded the Alliance? Or brooked a truce with Orgrim Doomhammer and left the rest to burn. He felt he understood the traitor Aiden Pernolde a bit better now.

A caravan made its way along a path, bound for the villages of the Alliance. As it did so, however, a great swarm of bandit appeared. They threw the merchant to the ground. Then took his wagons and merchandise before escaping scot-free.

'Business has never been better!' proclaimed a bandit.

'Too right, boss!' said another. 'Ever since the paladins all got caught up fighting the undead, we've had ourselves an easy time of it!'

As they laughed to themselves, however, they ground to a halt. For in front of them stood the massed ranks of an army of Lordaeron, clad in orange. And at its head stood Gavinrad the Dire, dark-haired and holding a very large hammer. He did not look pleased to see them.

The bandits scattered. One was shot as he tried to get off the wagon. The other two rushed into the underbrush, pursued by two soldiers. A gunshot echoed, and caught one of them in the leg. He fell to the ground, unable to move on his own, and his friend turned to face him.

'Help me!' cried the wounded bandit. 'Help me please!'

The uninjured bandit saw the approaching footmen and fled into the woods. There was a scream behind him. The uninjured bandit fled deeper and deeper into the darkness. Heedless of where he was going, until he tripped over a root, and stumbled to land with a crash. Pulling himself up, he realized where he was. The plants were wilted, and the ground was blackened.

Blight. He was standing on blight.

The knowledge horrified him.

A low snarling came to his ears, and he raised his axe as he looked up and saw, not a wolf, but a ghoul approaching him. The beast rushed at him, and he held its jaws off with his shield, struggling back and forth beneath its wild fury. Shoving it off him, he swung at it with his axe, driving it back. Then it leaped at him, and he closed his eyes and wildly lashed out.

There was a sound of pain, and then silence. He opened his eyes to see that the ghoul lay dead, his axe embedded in its skull. Getting onto his hands and knees, he removed his axe and breathed a sigh of relief. Then more snarling sounded and he looked up. Out of the trees, ghouls came at him from every direction.

There was a scream of absolute terror, suddenly cut short.

Then came the sound of munching.

It took only a little while for Gavinrad to return the stolen cargo. To his pleasure they found the merchant a little ways down the road, unharmed. The merchant was ecstatic when they revealed that he would be making his trip with cargo intact.

'Bless you, Sir Paladin.' he said, shaking Gavinrad's hand. 'We were afraid we'd be ruined.'

'What were you carrying?' asked Gavinrad.

'A shipment of fur cloaks for Prince Arthas army.' said the merchant. 'He has ordered a great amount of them, for some expedition. That and many weapons, and all kinds of preserved foodstuffs. Its to be a great host, or so I hear.'

'Did he?' asked Gavinrad, before returning to business. 'Where were the caravan guards? Did they flee? Or were they killed.' He doubted it was the latter; these bandits had fallen far too easily.

'No.' said the merchant. 'We didn't have any. You see, the local garrison has had to give up a good portion of its forces, and with the undead, they didn't have any to spare. For Prince Arthas' army, you see. Milord is rallying forces for it, and it has left the roads less safe, but I'm sure the Prince knows best.'

'One can only hope.' said Gavinrad in a thoughtful tone. 'I will leave some men to escort you the rest of the way. For now, I must report this news to Lord Uther. He will want to know.'

Gavinrad had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling indeed.

As he traveled to meet with Uther, he and his men passed through a village. Within the square a crowd had amassed, surrounding a crier who held a parchment. There was much to announce, reflected Gavinrad. The dead were walking the land, and many bloody battles had been fought. Stratholme had been burned to the ground. Though there had been a great deal hidden about that particular event. All that was known was that the plague and the undead were involved.

There were rumors that Prince Arthas had slaughtered the entire city. Yet Gavinrad didn't put any stock in such tell. It wasn't in the boy's nature.

The crier began to speak; 'By order of the Prince, one in ten of every soldier in the garrison is to make ready for battle! We also require the assistance of any willing Priests of the Light, or Mages of the Kirin Tor that are here! Their skills are needed to defeat the undead who have ravaged our land!' called a town crier to an assembled crowd. 'We also are taking volunteers! Those who wish to serve in this holy crusade should go to the Alliance base nearest to them! There you should submit yourselves to be outfitted for war!'

Standard practice was that in times of need a lottery would be made to determine who would go. But if the cheers were any indication, it would not be needed here. Prince Arthas was regarded with awe and respect. The people believed that if he had called for their aid, it was with good reason.

'We'll fight for Lordaeron!' cried the leader of a group of young men. 'Get your swords!'

So it was that across the land, the call went out for soldiers by Prince Arthas. As Gavinrad journeyed in pursuit of Uther, he saw many recruiters. They were met with enthusiasm and cheer. However as he drew into the more blighter, and darker areas, they became a source of dread.

'One in ten men?' cried a soldier. 'What if the undead return? We can't afford to lose that many soldiers.'

'Prince Arthas saved us,' said another, 'we must trust in his judgment.'

The lotteries here were in session. As Gavinrad continued, he saw parties making their way across the road to the Alliance bases.

It was on the third day of his journey that Gavinrad came across Uther. He found the paladin standing amidst the ruins of an undead bastion. Uther was surrounded by his fallen foes. His armor was covered in the grime of battle, and he was breathing heavily, his hammer held in a vicelike grip. He did not look back as Gavinrad approached. 'What is it, Gavinrad?'

'Prince Arthas is assembling a great host of soldiers.' said Gavinrad. 'I felt I should tell you, though you likely already know.'

'No.' said Uther. 'I did not know. Arthas and I have not spoken since Stratholme. Did you hear where he meant to go?'

'No.' said Gavinrad. 'No one knows, and I have asked many. He is being rather secretive about his goals. I have heard that he has commandeered a great host of ships, however, so it is likely overseas. He claims he means to hunt down those responsible for the blight, and the plague.'

'…I must stop him,' said Uther, 'he is in no shape to be commanding anything. You did well to bring this to me, Gavinrad. You are a loyal friend. I ask that you watch over this land while I am occupied pursuing my wayward student. Goodbye.'

Then Uther marched off just like that, leaving behind him the ruins of the undead. Gavinrad could see hundreds of their bodies in the base alone, and hundreds more in the field. Accompanied by only a few knights, Uther had killed well over a thousand undead.

Gavinrad was very glad that Uther Lightbringer was on the side of right.

Three days later, among the ruins of Stratholme, the city lay in smoldering ruins. Most of the buildings in the center of the city had been reduced to ashes. Those that had survived had been emptied. The scent of death was everywhere. The smell of burning flesh was now mixed with it as the bonfires burned day and night. They had been burning for nearly a week, and still, there were more corpses to put to the flame. Bloodstains were upon every street.

Teams of men cast corpses onto fires. Cloths were wrapped over their mouths and nose to prevent them from retching. They wished more than anything to stop. But they knew that every corpse not reduced to ashes could be turned into undead. Burning now were the bodies of men, women, and children, even babies. It was a mournful and terrifying spectacle that Jaina walked through.

He had done this. The forces of Lordaeron had done this to their own people. She couldn't conceive of it, but the truth was absolute and horrifying. Her hand shook as she clutched the staff and supported herself on it as she resisted the urge to faint. She'd known what she would find here, but she had to see it.

The sorceress made her way away from the piles of burning corpses. She tried to keep herself from sobbing. Tried to keep herself from throwing up. On both counts, she succeeded, barely.

'So much death…' she said. 'I can't believe Arthas could've done this.'

'Jaina!' cried a voice. 'Jaina Proudmoore!'

She turned and saw Uther rushing up to her. The old paladin looked as horrified as her, though he hid it with a bold face. He stood before her, breathing heavily and looking very old.

'Lord Uther,' said Jaina, trying to regain her composure.

'Ah, Jaina, ' said Uther, relieved. 'I thought I might find you here. Where has he gone, girl? Where has Arthas taken the fleet?'

'He came to me before he left,' said Jaina, the words pouring out. 'I pleaded with him not to go. It sounded like a trap!'

'Where?!' asked Uther, raising his voice.

Jaina remained silent. 'Northrend,' she said, 'he's gone to Northrend to hunt Mal'ganis.'

'Damn that boy!' cursed Uther. 'I've got to inform King Terenas.' He looked to the bodies being consumed, then back to Jaina, his eyes holding some sympathy. 'Don't be too hard on yourself, girl. You had nothing to do with this… slaughter.' He turned and moved away, striding out of sight and through the ruined streets.

No sooner had he gone, but a raven flew out of the smoke without a sound. It descended to the ground in a spiral, landed and transformed into the Prophet. 'The dead in this land might lie still for the time being, but don't be fooled.' he stated. 'Your young Prince will find only death in the cold north.'

'You!' said Jaina. 'Arthas is only doing what he believes is right!'

The Prophet looked to the slaughtered corpses, then back to her and Jaina took his point. 'Commendable as that may be,' The sarcasm in his voice was bitter, 'his passions will be his undoing. It falls to you now, young sorceress. You must lead your people west, to the ancient lands of Kalimdor. Only there can you combat the shadow, and save this world from the flame.'

And it was in that moment that Jaina realized this was the last chance. After this, there would be no turning back. Either she would stay here, and try to save a land which was dying. Or she would risk everything on the words of a Prophet who had seen everything which had happened thus far.

Jaina Proudmoore made her decision. It was the hardest decision she'd ever made in her life, but she made it.

Author's Note:

I think this is one example of adaptation expansion which I did well on. One of the flaws in Blizzard's writing is that armies just magically appear. We're supposed to believe that Azeroth has been in a state of nonstop, total war for ten years.

To which I reply:
Look at World War 1. That lasted four years. We are still recovering from it. And the world had a much higher population than Azeroth.

One of the things I try to do in my fic is explain where all the armies are coming from.