Archimonde stood atop a shallow hill, his fist raised theatrically into the afternoon air. The air crackled with energy, and the very mountain beneath his feet seemed to shudder. Birds fled into the air, and beasts took refuge in hollows. All around him, trees shook as though caught up in a hurricane.
This was far from inaccurate. Around Mount Hyjal, a storm was brewing.
Archimonde and his army had come far up the sheer slope of the Mountain, and before him, the vanguards of his enemies stretched, awaiting his crushing heel. At the top of the summit, around the feet of the World Tree itself, a Night Elf camp encircled. There was a second circle, like it, a bit farther down, and between them, a few scattered orc and human strongholds. A wide path, like a highway, wound around the slope of the Mountain from the hilltop beneath Archimonde's feet to the very summit, intersecting each stronghold. It was up this highway that the Legion would flow, like a river of dread, to drown the mortal world.
From the summit, a green light suddenly shone, and Archimonde threw up his arm despite himself to shield his eyes. After a few moments, the light subsided, and he looked around. Before him, in the middle of his highway, a wall of trees had sprung up, blocking the path of the demonic army.
"Stormrage," he cursed. He roared. And then he did something far more frightening: he laughed.
"Hear me, mortals!" the great Eredar called, sneering, once more raising his fist toward the World Tree's distant branches. The whole planet seemed to shake with the sound of his voice. "The time for reckoning has come!"
There was a clap of thunder, and a sound like a thousand crieS of despair. From the center of the legion of thunderheads orbiting in the skies above, a black shape broke free, plummeting towards the ground. As it drew nearer, those who occupied the mortal strongholds could see that it was not one, but many falling bodies. One by one, the great stones struck the face of the Mountain. For many moments the rained, and then, quite suddenly, they stopped.
The dust settled. Where the magically sprouted forest had been, and beyond it, to a portion of the Night Elves' nearer circle-fortress, there was now only a vast plain of dirt and craters. Without so much as one demon casualty, the path into the interior of the Mountain's defenses had been laid bare. As one, the surviving defenders sighed and hardened themselves for battle. But Archimonde was not finished. The great demon lowered his arm, which he had forgotten was still raised, and closed his eyes.
From every crater, an angry, defiant roar resounded. There were some among the amassed mortals who recognized the sound. There were some who did not. All of them cringed in terror.
From every crater, a burning figure emerged. All together, the infernals numbered in the thousands. With a second, violent roar, the entire mass of them charged toward up the highway toward the first mortal citadel, where the battered banner of the human Alliance waved.
As they charged, twilight fell over Mount Hyjal.
***
Kokoro's blade fell to earth like a flash of lightning. A skull clattered to the ground. Clunk.
He turned and whipped the sword around behind him. Two more skeleton warriors lost their heads. Clunk. Clunk.
Everywhere around the red-skinned orc, the undead swarmed. Their numbers seemed limitless. He jabbed forward, slashing a ghoul in twain. Three more appeared where it had stood. Far above, twilight clouds moved in to obscure the receding sun, and he thought he heard the roar of thunder behind the guttural cries of the Scourge. In the corner of his vision, he was sure he saw a flash of lightning.
Or perhaps it was just his sword. Clunk.
He ducked to avoid some sort of flaming missile, pivoted, and gored through a trio of ghouls. Placing his foot on the forehead of a fallen necromancer, the orc launched himself backwards, over the heads of a pack of crypt fiends. As the reanimated spiders struggled to turn around, Kokoro's sword whipped into the center of them and spilled thick, black blood onto the forest floor. Letting loose a fiendish cry, the lone warrior spun into a whirlwind of blood and death, wreaking havoc on the gathered swarm.
Relaxing his attack for a moment, the orc paused to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow. Reinforcements closed in over the bodies of the fallen as those near enough to necromancers rose up again in defiance. Cornered again, the demonic orc raised his blade in grim salute, preparing to charge back into the fray.
Thunder boomed. And then there was silence.
Kokoro glanced around, uneasy. Everywhere, the swarm had stopped moving, as if frozen in some invisible block of ice. Warily, the orc lashed out at a nearby abomination.
Clunk. Nothing happened.
The orc was suddenly aware of a haphazard aisle that had opened through the middle of the seemingly paused fray. He squinted; yes, his eyes had not deceived him. Three figures were coming up the aisle towards his position. As the approached, Kokoro tightened his grip on his blade.
"Warrior," a hissing voice called out. He could see the figures clearly now; the two on either side were Nathrezim dreadlords, vile, serpentine demons that Kokoro knew traveled commonly with the Scourge. The central figure, however, nearly stopped his heart in his chest. Like some abominated parody of a centaur, it rose from the ground on four mammoth legs, and with thick, taloned hands, it grasped a wicked-looking two-headed adamantium spear. Its head swelled, impossibly large, from its vast neck, which was as far around as the greatest Ironroot tree the orc had ever seen. And from the head sneered a cruel, diabolic face, the very illustration of evil. Kokoro knew that the voice that had spoken belonged to this face, for it was a voice from his nightmares, and his blackest memories.
"Mannoroth," he said, as the great beast lumbered to a halt before him. The dreadlords alighted on either side. For all his natural and demon-driven ferocity and skill, the Slayer of Shadowmoon felt suddenly very weak. He lowered his sword to the grass, leaning on it for support.
"No," the great demon hissed. "I am no Mannoroth." His disgusting voice seemed to chuckle; it was the sound of snapping bones. "I am no Mannoroth, the Destructor who was destroyed. I am no Mannoroth, who let himself be felled by his own pets."
"Wh-what are you?"
"I am Azgalor, Protector of the Legion. I serve the one you call Kil'jaeden, the Deceiver." With the word deceiver, Azgalor raised his face heavenward and spread a pair of greasy, black wings which sprouted sickeningly from his back. One of the dreadlords stifled a yawn.
Kokoro laughed suddenly. With the sound of laughter, whatever moment the overlarge demon had hoped to create shattered around him. He snapped his neck back down and glared at the red-skinned orc in annoyance.
"Azgalor… I have heard of you. You are one of Kil'jaeden's lackeys. A rather low-level Pit Lord, if I recall. I can't imagine how I mistook you for one as powerful, if admittedly stupid, as Mannoroth." He laughed again, and added, "Perhaps it was the smell."
"Foolish orc!" Azgalor hissed. "You should show more respect to those who hold your life in their hands."
"Since when do you hold my life in your hands, Pit Lord? You dare not touch me. I've been sent by the Deceiver himself."
"Well, that's not so impressive," said the dreadlord who had yawned. "So is he." He motioned to Azgalor. "So am I."
"Me too!" the second dreadlord chimed in.
"Silence, insects," Azgalor hissed to his companions.
"You'll let me pass unharmed," Kokoro said coolly. "And if the disorganization of your army is any indication of how much you've annoyed Kil'jaeden already, I expect you'll even assist me before he learns you've gotten in my way."
"Half-blooded whelp," the Pit Lord whispered menacingly, "how would you like me to make it run in the grass?"
"I wasn't speaking to you, Pit Lord," the orc growled. To the first dreadlord, he said softly, "Where is the one called Arthas?"
***
Arthas Terenas. Arthas Frostmourne. Arthas the Betrayer. The boy shade who wore the Death Knights' armor had had many names in his lives. At the moment, Illidan Stormrage was simply calling him 'bastard'.
"I wish he'd say something else," Morte said, yawning. They had fastened the elven sorcerer to a slab of stone near the mouth of a small cave. Carvings on the interior of the chamber suggested it had once been used by druids, but the overgrowth of the forest suggested the location had not been used for quite some time. Illidan had returned somewhat to consciousness, as evidenced by his repeated cursing of the two undead knights. He was not yet strong enough to break through the bonds, although both Frostmourne and Morte's blade, Icehowl, lay nearby just in case.
"Bastards," the prisoner said again. He spat on the ground.
"Charming, Illidan dear," Arthas said mockingly. "Didn't the Wardens teach you anything while they had you locked away?" Illidan muttered something in elvish and strained against his bonds. The two death knights laughed. "We'll need some catalyst, of course, before we can set him loose again. I had hoped he'd been stronger when we found him. No matter, though; I'll set Araj on him when he returns."
"Speaking of which, where is the old bone pile?" Morte piped up.
Arthas had been about to echo him, saying that they it couldn't have taken that long for the lich to complete his task and that Araj should have returned by now, when he suddenly felt the telltale creep of frost up his neck. From Morte's stifled shiver, it appeared that the other death knight had felt the same sensation. Sure enough, the grim form of Arthas' second-favorite lich floated over the side of the cave and alighted next to the chained Illidan.
"Araj!" Arthas greeted the frozen wizard warmly. Perhaps in deference to his addressee, however, the prince's tone then turned icy. "Where have you been? I sent you back through the forest over an hour ago to steer that bumbling Pit Lord and his army towards the dreadlords and our own forces. What took you so long?"
"Trouble," the lich hissed. "Thisss one encountered a red-ssskinned orc at the foressssst'sssss edge, and he desssstroyed thisss one'sss body. Thisss one hasss only now returned from the Altar of Darknesssss." He added, "The orc wasss a blademassster."
"A red-skinned orc?" Morte echoed, incredulous. "But Mannoroth is long dead by now!"
"Thisss one knowsss what he sssaw, Death Knight," Araj spat. "Thisss sssaysss he wasss red-ssskinned, and he wassss!"
"Calm down," Arthas said softly. He was thinking. "Evidently either Archimonde or Kil'jaeden have come up with a new way to charge the orcs' blood. Not that it really matters. The orcs are aligned with the humans and night elves, against the Legion, so there is probably only one of them come to bother us." He looked at Illidan, still chained to the stone formation. "Why, he'd make the perfect catalyst."
"Catalyssst, Prinssse?" Araj hissed. Morte was grinning.
"Nothing important, Araj. You may have just bought yourself your life." He laughed at the lich's confused expression. Morte grinned. "Now then, those dreadlords are expecting a flare, aren't they? Why don't you give them one?"
***
The mana flare exploded above the line of the treetops in a magnificent beacon of fire and ice. The light was nearly blinding, illuminating for miles around the twilit sky.
"What is –" Azgalor began to say, but Kokoro had already set off running, his blade in tow. Without so much as a word, Mephistroth and Anetheron leapt into the air and flapped off after him, towards the place where the flare had broken the endless monotony of the forest canopy.