Kokoro ran quickly down the mountain path; he knew not where to. An image had flared to life in his mind's eye, a shadowy map which urged towards something. He knew he sought something at the end of the path which would weaken his enemy, Ner'zhul; something which would cripple the deranged warlock and bring him to his knees at Kokoro's feet.
"Kil'jaeden," he said softly, "where are you taking me?"
The path leveled off; it had long left the mountain itself behind, winding now between the wooded bluffs and foothills. He could see smoke on the horizon, but from what? Was not every demon and mortal who cared about the fate of the world embattled beneath the boughs of the World Tree? Who could be burning the forest rather than fighting?
He sensed something suddenly, and ducked to one side, just missing the blurred shape that swung at him. He rolled and recovered, unsheathing his sword and regaining his feet to face his attacker.
Before him stood a creature made of bone. It resembled a human or orcish skeleton, greatly elongated to exaggerate its more fearsome features. Demonic horns emerged from the top of its skull, and a cloud of frost hung about its mouth when it exhaled. It shrieked and waved a staff of ebony in Kokoro's direction, and began to chant.
Kokoro knew what the thing was; it was a lich. There had been dozens of the undead creatures serving the Horde during the Second War, supposedly created by the great Warlock, Gul'dan, from the bodies of fallen orcish spellcasters. Kokoro had long supposed the wretched abominations silenced for good, but with the coming of the Scourge he had seen that whoever now lorded over the undead had set a new elite order of liches upon the world.
Whoever now lorded over the undead... of course. Ner'zhul. It made so much sense for the great warlock to command the ranks of the dead; it explained everything, from the strict organization and sheer genius behind the invasion to the Scourge's inborn knowledge of the orcs' and humans' weaknesses. It was clear that to find Ner'zhul would be to find the source and master of the Scourge itself... and to destroy the Warlock would be to banish the armies of the dead forever from the face of the world.
First, however, the warlock's servant needed to be dealt with.
"Lich," Kokoro taunted, his skin tingling, "I know what you are. You are Ner'zhul's puppet."
The skeletal mage ceased to chant. "Ssstupid orc," it hissed. "What do you know about Ner'zzzhul?"
"I know enough," Kokoro said. He gripped his blade tightly.
"Cursssed fool," the lich rasped. "Thisss one doesss not play gamesss." It resumed its chanting.
Kill him, said Kil'jaeden's voice in Kokoro's ear. The orc shouted something; he didn't know what. He leapt at the lich, swinging his blade in a wide arc towards the wretch's neck.
The creature never even blinked.
The sword, girded in flames, struck the lich's throat and snapped it; its hellish skull crashed to the ground. The rest of the body collapsed into dust and quickly melting ice.
Kokoro thought about the lich. The spellcasters were not often leaders of the Scourge; more likely, the creature's presence here meant some greater commander was nearby – perhaps a demon of some sort, or maybe even one of the Scourge's elite generals, the dreaded death knights.
The orc recalled absently the tale he had heard of the death knight called Arthas. Once a valiant human prince, he had murdered his father and betrayed his kingdom before joining the ranks of the Scourge. From what was said, it seemed Arthas was rather high up in the undead hierarchy. If he was here, and could be killed...
Yes, said the voice of Kil'jaeden. Kill him.
Kokoro looked down at the skull at his feet; of the body, it alone remained, scowling up at him. On impulse, he raised his foot and stamped down upon the skull, which shattered like glass beneath his heel.
"So shall your champion be crushed, Ner'zhul," he said. If it was Arthas that was responsible for the smoke on the horizon, if it was Arthas that had summoned the lich, if Arthas was indeed nearby, then Kokoro would find him, and kill him.
"And then, Ner'zhul," he said softly, "I shall come for you."
A war horn sounded. The demons were advancing.
The last line of trees had fallen, smoldering, to the ground, and the lines of the Legion army were advancing steadily over the newly-cleared area. A second horn sounded in response, and a flag of parley went up from the Scourge army. The Legion paused at a respectful distance as the undead generals and their attendants approached.
Mephistroth and Anetheron felt like fools; an army of paltry undead at their backs, and the full force of the Legion in front of them. They knelt on one knee and lowered their heads as they waited for the Legion general to meet them.
The first horn sounded again; the ranks of the Legion parted somewhat to form a long aisle up the center of their formation. From this aisle emerged the hulking, crimson form of Azgalor.
"Ah, brothers nathrezim," the mammoth Pit Lord spat jovially. "Have you come to surrender?"
"We have come," said Mephistroth, as he and his brother stood, "to inquire why the Legion feels the need to chase us all over Kalimdor! Should you not be with Lord Archimonde at the World Tree?"
"I might ask you two vermin the same question," Azgalor retorted.
"We are under special orders," Anetheron said.
"Archimonde didn't tell me about any 'special orders'," sniffed the Pit Lord.
"That's because Kil'jaeden doesn't need to tell Archimonde every time he wants us to do something." Mephistroth rolled his eyes in annoyance.
"You are here by Kil'jaeden's orders?" Azgalor's tone was incredulous.
"Didn't I just say that?" Mephistroth asked.
The Pit Lord growled. "What exactly is it you're doing?"
"We are looking for Tich—" Anetheron began, but Mephistroth interrupted.
"That's none of your business," he said hastily, but the Pit Lord grinned.
"What about Tichondrius?" he asked. "Tichondrius is dead. What are you after – his killer?"
Anetheron nodded slowly, and Mephistroth bit his lip.
"Well? What have you done? Are you close, little dreadlords? I wouldn't want to let your prey escape while we were talking here, now would I?" As a matter of fact, the Pit Lord decided, that would be a great idea. That would show the insolent little dreadlords who was in charge.
"Actually," Anetheron spat venomously, "we've got him cornered right in this wood. I've sent the little brat, Arthas, to collect him already."
"Is that so?" the Pit Lord said slowly. "I'm afraid I'll have to check into that myself." He closed his eyes and focused on the image of Kil'jaeden. There was a long pause, and then...
"WHAT DO YOU WANT, AZGALOR?" Kil'jaeden's voice boomed. The Pit Lord opened his eyes. Kil'jaeden's torso, shoulders, and head hovered in the air nearby. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" the voice repeated.
"I am sorry to interrupt you, Lord," Azgalor said meekly, "but it seems I've run into a couple of your other servants." He gestured to the dreadlords. "They claim you want them to find Tichondrius' killer."
"YES, I DO." There was a pause. "WAS THAT IT, AZGALOR?"
"Well, no, Lord," the Pit Lord said, obviously flustered – he had been sure the dreadlords were lying. He searched his mind for something, anything, that he could use to incriminate the two demons, for they were making him look like a fool.
He thought of something, and smiled. "My Lord, I was simply wondering if you knew that they sent the Lich King's pawn, Arthas, out alone to retrieve their prey? Arthas, whose very existence is an instrument of the Lich King's rebellion?" He sneered at the dreadlords, sure he had them trapped. They seemed to think so too, for they were shaking in fear.
Kil'jaeden, however, was not so quick to follow the Pit Lord's lead. "YES, I KNOW THE TRAITOR ARTHAS IS DOING THEIR WORK FOR THEM, BUT DO NOT WORRY, AZGALOR – ARTHAS IS HARDLY AN OBSTACLE YET. THE LITTLE BRAT WILL PROBABLY DIE WHEN HE TASTES ILLIDAN STORMRAGE'S BLADES.
"NO, ANETHERON AND MEPHISTROTH HAVE NOT FAILED IN THEIR TASK YET, ALTHOUGH HAVE MADE SOME MISTAKES. AT LEAST THEY ARE TRYING. WHAT ABOUT YOU, AZGALOR? YOU HAD A TASK AS WELL. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ACCOMPLISH IT?"
"My Lord, they have betrayed—" Azgalor began, but it did no good.
"YOU WERE TOLD TO RALLY THE LEGION TOGETHER, AND INSTEAD YOU ARE THREATENING MY TRUSTED GENERALS? I WOULD THAT YOU WERE THE TRAITOR, AZGALOR."
The dreadlords were snickering now. Azgalor was sweating. "My Lord, please—"
"SILENCE, ALL OF YOU." Azgalor shut his mouth, and the dreadlords' snickering stopped. "YOU ARE ALL FAILING MISERABLY, BUT I HAVE NOT LOST HOPE FOR YOU. KNOW THAT I AM SENDING SOMEONE TO YOU, SOMEONE WHO WILL SET RIGHT THE MISTAKES THAT YOU HAVE MADE."
"Who is this servant, Lord?" Mephistroth asked.
"AN ORC OF SORTS," Kil'jaeden said. "HE IS MY CHAMPION, AND HE SHALL FIND BOTH THE FUGITIVE, ILLIDAN, AND THE LICH KING'S PUPPET, ARTHAS, AND KILL THEM FOR ME."
"We are supposed to work with an orc?" Azgalor was visibly insulted.
"NO, AZGALOR, YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO STAY OUT OF HIS WAY. LET HIM COME AND COMPLETE HIS TASK, AND TRY NOT TO GET YOURSELVES KILLED IN THE MEANTIME."
"But, my Lord—"
"SILENCE, ANETHERON! I HAVE SPOKEN. YOU ARE NOT TO INTERFERE WITH MY CHAMPION'S TASK. IF YOU DO..." He let the threat hang for a moment. "DO NOT INTERFERE." The image faded, leaving the three demons staring at one another in awkward silence.