"Empire of Death"
By Forever Jake
Chapter 1
Shadows flickered against the torchlight in the catacombs of Undercity. The Legion's magical assaults had reduced the surface of the former capitol to rubble, crushing the tall towers into mounds of unrecognizable debris and cleaving massive faults in the earth to swallow up the shorter buildings. Many humans had died that day, victims of nearly instantaneous destruction. Later they would be counted lucky to have escaped the horrors to come.
One such horror sat now at a desk in an otherwise empty hall. The room Sylvanas Windrunner now claimed as her private study had once been the throne room of King Terenas himself, but he had not lived to see it in its current subterranean location. He had been slain scant days before the cataclysm, murdered by his own son, Arthas.
Arthas, the traitor king of the dead. Arthas, who sat at the right hand of Ner'zhul, the Legion's puppet. Arthas, the boy shade who had stolen countless lives... including Sylvanas' own, far away in the pristine groves of her childhood. That land, Quel'thalas, had once been called the Realm Eternal. Now it, like all the world, it seemed, had been converted into one massive cemetery of empty graves; a memorial ground for slaughtered elves and walking dead.
Behind all the destruction in her mind, a vision of Arthas remained, his diabolic face forever frozen in her memory. It was he who had slain her, and he who had called her back from the grave to fight, kill and never die, for him. For him.
She was free of him, now... Almost. She had liberty of her movement, her speech and, most precious, her thoughts. She could oppose him, fight against him and his numberless Scourge. Yet still, she could not die. She longed to lie beside her fallen kin in the now-silent forests of Quel'thalas. She longed to cease moving, cease thinking, to sleep forever. But each time she lost herself in the blackness of a new false death, she would awake anew to find the cold face of Arthas staring back into her mind.
She opened a drawer near the top of the desk. She did not know how the wooden object had survived, but now it belonged to her. It housed her most prized possession – the only thing which brought her joy.
She reached into the drawer and retrieved a short, dark knife. A tiny skull had been carved into its hilt, and the nostrils of the skull now breathed perpetual frost out onto the black blade. Each puff of cold air illuminated for an instant an inscription that ran along the edge of the weapon.
She did not read the runed message now; she didn't have to. She knew it by heart: I kill what does not die; I banish what cannot flee. Those who linger far too long shall come to seek, in dying, me.
Long had she studied to discern the blade's purpose, once it had fallen into her possession. When she'd learned it, she'd laughed and cried. Now she sat studying it, her blue, pupil-less eyes moving over its shaft. She could use it, now; she could end her curse forever, and lie silently without being doomed to wake.
She replaced the blade in the drawer and shut it. One other would feel its touch before she.
"My Lady?" said a voice. There were no doors in Undercity. The cataclysm had shattered any wood barrier that might have divided a pair of rooms. Sylvanas' minions, the Forsaken, as she had named them, came and went as they pleased. There was no knock to be made upon an entrance, and only before their Dark Lady did they announce their arrival. Not that even that was necessary – Sylvanas had sensed her servant approaching long before the necromancer spoke.
"What do you want?" she snapped. She wanted to be alone, to fall asleep alone... it was the closest thing to death she could indulge in.
"Forgive me, my Lady," the necromancer said, "but we have brought the prisoner here, as you ordered."
"Where is he?" she asked quickly.
"We have thrown the lich into the crypt. The Nerubians are preparing to question him, I believe."
"Tell them not to begin the interrogation until I arrive." The necromancer nodded and scuttled off, his sandals echoing down the corridor.
She permitted herself a smile. Her self-indulgent depression and ill-needed nap could wait.
They had found Kel'thuzad.
Kael'thas stood, shivering, on the beach, his tattered red cape fluttering like a flag of surrender in the brisk, cruel wind. The cold bit at him through his insulated cape and armor, and even the flames of his magic could not warm him. The energies of the demon, Kil'jaeden, had died with Illidan at the foot of the Icecrown Spire, and now his own powers were rapidly fading as well. Without some new source of magic, the Blood Elves would die.
Yet that doom, however certain, was still the more distant of the two which threatened his people at present. Even with the promise of some new well of power, the Blood Elves first had to escape from Northrend, and the continent did not seem wont to see them go. Cruel winds cut into them or crushed them into the ground, or sometimes whipped at them hard enough to fling an unlucky warrior far into the air. The snow dragged at their feet, slowing their path, and now, having reached the sea at last, the freezing ocean sprays pelted them with frost and half-hardened hail.
The naga had already vanished into the seas, their alliance apparently no longer binding with their lord dead. Kael wondered if he would ever see Vashj again, and whether she would be friend or foe. He wondered what would kill them first – their hunger for magic, the awful winter winds, or the ever-sleepless armies of the Scourge. Already scouts had caught sight of the dead marching distantly behind them, never quite catching up but never losing the scent, like wolves after wounded prey. Now the elves were trapped in a slowly constricting net, caught between the anvil of the ocean and the hammer of the Scourge.
Kael had managed a Flame Strike to ignite the skeleton of a wrecked ship they had found, and around this beacon the elves had gathered, vainly trying to warm themselves against the bitter cold. The fire, however, was dying, helpless before the raging winds that ceaselessly attempted to snuff it out. Occasionally a puff of steam would hiss into existence when a wave of snow found its way into the heart of the bonfire.
He had not even realized he had lost consciousness until he felt his lieutenant's gloved hand shaking him. He opened his eyes wide in surprise, and quickly narrowed them again to mere slits to block out the blinding white of the snowstorm.
The lieutenant was pointing at something, out in the storm somewhere. Kael followed the invisible line with his eyes, squinting to make out some shape in the swirling blizzard. Presently his eyes adjusted to the patterns of the falling snow, and he could see a thin black line at the top of a far- off hill. As he watched, the line slowly thickened and widened, expanding to cover more and more ground. What was this? Some spell of illusion? Some mirage, perhaps, born of fatigue and the storm? Gradually the shape grew larger and larger, until Kael guessed at what he was seeing.
The Scourge had come for them at last.
Some of soldiers were crying. Others were drawing swords or readying spells. A ranger was picking frost off of her bow, waiting for the ghouls to come into range. Somewhere, a war horn sounded; among his forces or those of the enemy, Kael knew not. The mage reached out with numb hands balled into fists, searching for some last vestige of power he could harness, some spell he could afford.
His face contorting in pain, he raised his arms into the air, as if the very clouds above would be moved to pity. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and for what he was sure was the last time, familiar red lightning danced in the prince's hair and eyes. Then, when he thought the first of the enemy ranks had drawn near enough, he opened his hands and cried out.
A pillar of flame erupted among the undead, throwing that area into confusion. The greater Scourge pressed on, unfazed. The fire glowed dim behind the still-falling snow, powerful in its desperation, but not powerful enough to save a handful of dying elves.
His strength spent, Kael collapsed for a moment, his chest heaving in agony. He was sore all over, unable to move of his own accord. He could only kneel there, in the snow, awaiting doom.
Someone lifted him up, pleaded with him to fight. He raised his head, watching the fray. A thin volley of arrows flew haphazardly into the steadily advancing swarm of bodies. Here and there, swordsmen made a few well-dealt slashes at the enemy, downing this horror or that before they succumbed to the sheer numbers of the damned.
On the Scourge came, and one by one, the Blood Elves fell.
There were a few dozen of them now – a failing wall of swordsmen, a tiny pocket of healers and spellcasters, and the ranger Kael had seen earlier. They were being pressed farther and farther back, tighter and tighter against the coast.
It was too much. There was no escape.
"Fall back," Kael yelled above the storm and the battle, fighting to raise himself once more to his feet. "Into the sea! The Blood Elves shall not become the Lich King's slaves. They'll not take us here!"
He forced his legs to move, slowly, making himself wade defiantly into the freezing waters. His soldiers followed him, loyal even to their deaths. Some were cut down before they reached the shoreline, while others escaped their pursuers into the frigid waves.
It was cold, so very cold. Kael moved on, refusing to yield to the growing numbness in his lower body. It crept up his legs, over his torso, even to his shoulders. Still he would not stop. Into the sea, where Arthas and his necromancers could not make use of his corpse.
Kael felt very suddenly as though he was going to faint. Black shapes had appeared out of the roaring surf, impossibly huge. Ships! They were being rescued... but by whom? Lost in his confusion, the elven prince was swept up by a wave, and his legs lost the sea floor. He was reeling, spinning, fighting to keep afloat.
He was near to one of the ships now, and he could see humanoid forms leaning over the edge, casting out, hurling nets into the water. They were fishing, fishing for elves...
As Kael passed out, a vision of Arthas appeared, sneering into his vacant eyes.
Sylvanas' footsteps seemed deafening in the dark silence of the corridor. Her boots were thunderheads, heralding new storms into undisturbed skies. Her eyes shone like fallen stars, omens of coming danger.
The catacombs had existed beneath the city long before the city fell beneath the earth. Tombs of kings and heroes were everywhere, generations of human royalty sleeping restfully in their coffins, undisturbed by the cataclysm that had shaken the world of the living. To a necromancer, this place would be a paradise, a plentiful field begging to be harvested. Yet, mindful of her own painful existence, Sylvanas could not bring herself to raise even a single warrior. Envy was for the living – hers was a different sin.
She reached the 'crypt', though in the context of the veritable necropolis that was the Undercity, the word held little meaning. This was the crypt fiends' lair, the dark place where the undead spiders kept their residence. It was also where prisoners were interrogated, as most of the unfortunates possessed a keen arachnophobia, and spider webs and pincers were most useful in extracting information.
Technically, the spiders were not the Nerubian soldiers Ner'zhul had long ago raised beneath the icy mountains of Northrend; though their bodies belonged to that race of arachnids, in mind and spirit, the crypt fiends were of the same cursed race as all the Forsaken; they were elves. Undead elven women, or banshees, could shed their ghostly forms in order to inhabit the body of another. These 'fiends' were the results of countless sister warriors who had given their lives a second time in order to provide needed versatility to the Forsaken army. Possession was costly, but rewarding – Sylvanas now commanded all the varying forces that Arthas had at his disposal, if in fewer numbers.
The fiends had used their webs to fasten the hapless Kel'thuzad to one of the crypt's many honeycombed walls. The lich did not writhe, as a living prisoner might at being held fast while gigantic spiders scurried around him. He squirmed occasionally against his webs, testing the strength of his prison, but he seemed unmoved by the skittering fiends.
But he could not fool Sylvanas. In life she had been a skilled tracker, her elven senses acute and alert. Since death she had only improved in that area, converted by Ner'zhul into the perfect hunter. She could track a single enemy for days, if she desired... and she could smell the fear that permeated Kel'thuzad. For whatever reason, the lich could not bear the thought of dying.
"Where is the Scourge hiding?" she asked calmly. The lich laughed at her.
"I will tell nothing to the dreadlords' bitch!" Kel'thuzad spat. Sylvanas sighed.
"Where are they?" she repeated.
"Even if I knew, I would not tell you." He grinned. "I was alone when you caught me, was I not? Your banshees, keen trackers all, could not find an entire base, and you ask me where to find it?" His glowing eyes darkened. "I know no more than you where they are, and I don't care."
"I'm afraid I believe you, Kel'thuzad." Though he still stunk of fear, Sylvanas could not detect the scent of deceit on his body. A probe of his mind brought her to a similar conclusion.
"You're... afraid?" The Dark Ranger rolled her eyes. The poor fool did not understand.
"You can't tell me anything more, and so you've outlived your usefulness," she said to him, relishing the look of understanding and renewed terror that crept over his face. "Atheesha," she said to an abomination who stood near the door, "you may kill him." The possessed giant grinned with two of its many mouths and lifted a large, cleaver-like axe from the crypt floor and taking a hulking step towards the prisoner.
"Wait!" The lich called out as she turned her back. She looked over her shoulder at him. The abomination halted. Seeing that he had stalled his execution, he hurried to speak before she changed her mind again. "I can give you information! I know... I know that Arthas rules the humans here! Their leader, in Dalaran! He's undead!"
"I'll make a note of that. Atheesha? Now, kill him."
"No! You... don't want to be killing me!" Sylvanas narrowed her eyes, but mentally halted the abomination again.
"You are gambling, now, lich, and I should tell you I detest games of chance. Explain to me why I shouldn't kill you, and make it fast. My patience wears thin."
"Of course... My Lady." The lich was visibly forcing himself to relax, to stay cool. "In Quel'thalas, the Sunwell stands – corrupted, but not destroyed. By its power was I born, the very day you, to, were raised."
"I know all this, Kel'thuzad."
"Yes, Sylvanas. But now you will know more. As it was that corrupted power that birthed me, it is from the Well that I continue to draw my strength. If you kill me, the corrupted Well will have nothing to feed, and in time, it will overflow with the Lich King's energies."
"Impossible," Sylvanas hissed, but the lich continued, thankful to have at last captured her attention.
"Arthas planned to reenergize the Well, and in fact, that was my task, before my apprehension. It will take him time to find another mage of my abilities to do it for him, time enough for you to forge some plan, perhaps."
She knew that he was playing on her fears, happy to have struck two things dear to her heart: her love for her fallen homeland, and her hatred of Arthas.
"But if you kill me now," he was saying, "the pool will begin to fill again almost immediately. In mere months, Arthas will have a great new fount of magical power – enough to fuel whatever he desires." Kel'thuzad was pleading now. "Let me live. I can show you what he plans to do!"
"Be silent," Sylvanas. "I grow tired of your whining." The lich's shoulder's slackened beneath the webbing of his prison. He prepared himself for death. "I will spare you, but only until the Sunwell is destroyed, and of now more use to Arthas."
"You would destroy the heart of your people?" The prisoner seemed shocked at the woman's sheer unscrupulousness. She faced him with a cold and dispassionate stare.
"The heart of my people is as dead as I am," she said. "The abomination that has replaced the Sunwell is nothing but the headstone. The sooner it is destroyed, the sooner my kin may rest in peace."
She gave a look around the room, nodding once at the collection of spiders, corpses, and ghosts. All were her sisters, and all had once called themselves elves. Now they were mere shadows – Forsaken.
The Dark Lady turned, then, and vanished into the darkness of the corridor.