"Empire of Death"
By Forever Jake

Chapter 3

The woman known as Deirdre Jarens was dead. She wondered, sometimes, whether she had always been, or whether there had been a time when she could have been considered among the living. If such a time had occurred at all, she certainly did not recall it, and it had long ago passed.

She had been born the child of Markos and Ellyn Jarens, a pair of destitute humans of no renown. These peasants she did not consider her parents, however, for she had never known them. When she had been but an infant, their family home had come aflame; only she had survived. It was only after many years that she had learned it was arson.

The Jarens family had lived in a village on the fringes of Quel'thalas, at a time when racial hatreds were common. Orcs had ravaged the land twice already, and many still were loose in the country; trolls and goblins wandered the land without fear or consequence. Humans and elves, allies of historic loyalty, were beginning to feel the first of many tensions to come.

Quel'thalas, perhaps more than any other nation of the Alliance, had felt firsthand the wrath of the Horde. Many had fallen in defense of the Realm Eternal, and the human kingdoms to the south and west had been powerless to stop the assault. Only when dissension in their own ranks became apparent did the orcish armies leave the elves and their broken home.

Many survivors blamed the human kings and their pettiness for failing to protect their friends in arms. Reason was discarded; vengeance was taken without thought.

And one night, the village in which the Jarens lived took up torches, and Ellyn and Markos lost their lives.

Priests would come soon after, calming the populace and chastising them for their actions. Deirdre would be found, and surrendered to those who would become her only family – the Kirin Tor.

Dalaran's magocratic ruing council was ever enigmatic, cloaked in mystery, and so she became when she grew into adulthood. The name of Deirdre Jarens was never spoken by human lips, nor seen in writing.

One man only would become her friend, for even her patrons had little time for an orphaned peasant girl. One man only would shed his anonymity and become the father she had never known. Only one mage on the Kirin Tor would take her into his black heart.

His name, when he revealed it to her, was Kel'thuzad.

From him she learned how to master and control the gift which had saved her life the night her parents burned. Her spellcraft perfected in far less time than most, and with the brightening of her mind, her heart darkened to match her mentor's. Contorted by hate, she now possessed the means to avenge her parents' deaths.

One day, Kel'thuzad left. He traveled north, towards some unseen goal, and he left his foster daughter behind. He promised he would one day return. She swore that if he did not, she would follow him.

On that night Deirdre returned to the village of her birth. The township had grown, and her parents' ruined dwelling had been built over and housed a new family. The elves lived in happiness and peace, secure with their human allies gone from their lands, and from their lives.

That night, Deirdre performed one spell. She whispered it in the silent breeze that swept over the hilltop at the edge of the village, where she knelt, hiding. As she watched, the air darkened in the center of the town square, and then blackened into acrid smoke. A pillar of flame appeared, expanding outwards to consume every structure within the village.

Then she turned and left. She would hear reports later, confirming what she had known in the moment she cast the spell. There had been no survivors. Every victim had been elven.

Months passed, then years. And after a time, Deirdre pointed her feet northward and began to walk. She did not get far. Plague had come to Lordaeron, and rumors of war floated on the winds like the first bitter flakes of a long winter. And with the return of the tides of darkness came Kel'thuzad.

Her mentor was not as she recalled him. He had shed the violet colors of the Kirin Tor and now wore black robes lined with silver, spidery runes. She could sense the change in his soul, as well, and when she pressed him he told her his tale.

A voice had long called to him, and at last he had journeyed north to seek its source. His quarry he had found at the top of the world, encased in snow and ice. It was this entity who had fathered the Plague which gripped Lordaeron. To Kel'thuzad, who would become his favored servant, had the wintery god then made known his name: Ner'zhul, the Lich King… master of the dread army that would be known as the Scourge.

Then Ner'zhul had presented Kel'thuzad with a task: spread his worship to the living, who would in turn succumb to his Plague. The wizard swore to oblige… and Deirdre became the first convert into the Cult of the Damned.

For many months she and her adopted father worked, attracting worshipers and employing them to spread the Plague-bearing grain that would desolate the country. The Scourge came, then, a veritable swarm of walking dead… the arm of the Lich King himself.

Deirdre and Kel'thuzad paused and watched the fruits of the labors evolve. More and more territory was taken. Kel'thuzad gave his life and regained it, reanimated as a skeletal lich to better serve his new master. Quel'thalas, and then all Lordaeron fell before the Plague and the Scourge. And into new life was born the woman who would come to embody everything Deirdre hated.

Sylvanas Windrunner had been, briefly, a thorn in the Scourge's side in the battles of Quel'thalas, a Ranger General charged with defending the Realm Eternal from the sort of destruction it had faced in the time of the Horde. Sylvanas had fallen before Arthas, the Lich King's favored Death Knight, and instead of an honorable death, Arthas had summoned her back as an undead banshee, a ghost cursed to hunt those she had loved for the glory of the Scourge.

Sylvanas would prove a most deadly enemy to Arthas and the armies of the dead, however. Over time, the energies the Lich King had spent in his war began to fade, and with it, his control of his minions. Sylvanas reclaimed her mind and her freedom, and had aided enemies of the Scourge in ousting Arthas from his position of power in Lordaeron. Arthas returned to his master's side, far away in the North, and Sylvanas proved her treachery had only begun.

The remaining Scourge forces in the area, after Sylvanas' bid for power, fell under Deirdre's own master, Kel'thuzad. As the war began to shift in Sylvanas' favor, Kel'thuzad discovered his master's voice was silent in his mind. The lich resolved to travel to Northrend to receive the advice of Arthas or Ner'zhul, whichever he could find.

By her own magical link to the undead mage, Deirdre tracked the progress of his journey, leading the Scourge's losing war in his absence. It was upon Kel'thuzad's return journey that he was caught – by none other than Sylvanas herself.

It was then Deirdre's turn, in desperation, to seek out the master of the Scourge, but Arthas found her first. Arthas, now in full possession of the Lich King's power, had assured the woman that her mentor would be recovered safely, and she had nodded in agreement…

Deirdre would see her father again, even if it meant fighting her way, alone, through Sylvanas' fortress. This she swore as she nursed Kael's wounds. Arthas had made her promise the Blood Mage's safety, but though the bastard elf was sleeping thanklessly through her care, it would be another of his race who would feel the wrath of Deirdre Jarens.

The commander of the Alliance of Dalaran stood in the center of a wide amphitheater, his back to his camp. The crater sloped up and away from him in all directions, seemingly radiating from him. This was his country, his domain. Many men had laid claim to this place over the generations, but today, to only one did it belong. Today, Edwin Perenolde was king.

The aging commander had once ruled a land not far from this very spot, called Alterac by those who called it anything at all. It had not been a large kingdom, nor had it possessed a powerful military. It had not been rich in gold or oil; but it had been his. Baron Perenolde, great grandson of a past King's nephew, had ruled his Alterac with a soft hand, adored by his people… but that time was gone now, separated from the present by years and ordeals.

The Horde had come, in that time, to challenge humanity's rule, and Alterac had found itself defenseless before the coming war. When it became necessary, Perenolde abdicated his throne and surrendered before the might of his enemies, saving the lives of his kinsmen and destroying his honor.

He believed he had saved Alterac – but he had only damned it in a different fashion.

When the war was done and the Horde repulsed, the other kings of the Alliance had come to punish him for his cowardice – cowardice because he did not resign his people to death. He surrendered himself to his former allies, and accepted their sentence… exile.

He left the lands of Alterac and Lordaeron, departing for the twenty-five years demanded by his arbitrators. When he returned at last, he found it was not the kingdom he remembered.

War again had come to the lands of the Alliance. Armies of the dead ravaged the country, killing indiscriminately. Soldiers and civilians alike fell before the shadows of their dark masters.

Worse, still, than this was the realization that he was once again on the wrong side of the conflict.

The bitterness of his exile had driven him to roam, and after a time, he had found himself in the bleak and bitter North. There he had found a new master, and a new life. He had become a Death Knight, a champion of the Lich King, Ner'zhul.

It was Ner'zhul who commanded the Scourge that threatened Lordaeron, and despite his desires to aid his people, his master bid him cleanse the lands of his birth. Anonymous among the swarms of the dead, Perenolde had hid behind a suit of armor and a runed sword, dying in his heart alongside every one of his people he murdered.

Then, like a summer storm vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared, the Scourge retreated. Perenolde could feel Ner'zhul's grip on him fading, and the vast multitudes of the dead fled back to Northrend. The Lich King's attention had been diverted elsewhere, and in the chaos, Lordaeron – and Perenolde – slipped through his fingers.

As soon as he realized his newfound freedom, he sought out the survivors of his race who still fought the lingering undead. He learned of the enigmatic Dark Ranger, Sylvanas Windrunner, and of the demonic Dreadlords, each of whom still commanded wings of undead forces in the kingdom. Joining with the charismatic Lord Garithos, Perenolde quickly became a hero among those who had condemned him decades before.

When Garithos fell in battle, Perenolde was unanimously chosen his successor. He was seen as a beacon of light in the dark times, a champion of the old aristocracy, one of few humans alive who could trace his family to royalty. Forgiven his crimes in wars past, he was elevated to legendary status – a future king, if there were ever again enough living subjects to be king of.

And no one knew his darkest secret, his worst crime – that he had fought alongside the very Scourge that had leveled Lordaeron, that he had been the very enemy his people hated and feared.

Garithos had struck an unlikely alliance with the elven ghost, Sylvanas, at the last battle against the Dreadlords who commanded most of the local undead forces. Since that day, however, Perenolde had decreed that the living in his realm would never again side with the walking dead. He had begun a slow, guerilla campaign against Sylvanas and her 'Forsaken', hoping to take back the shattered capitol city from her and her soulless comrades. Thus far he had failed, although progress was being made.

He worried, however, that the Dark Lady, as she called herself, would reveal his secret before she could be destroyed. He wore his curse well, hidden behind a mask of humanity as impenetrable as the steel helm that had his face before. He had an advantage in that, unlike most of the damned, he had never died in the first place; he had merely fallen, still living, under the Lich King's corruption. Ner'zhul's other former generals, however – including Sylvanas – could still identify him if they wished. He wondered why she had not done so sooner. Perhaps she was grateful enough for her own freedom from the Frozen Throne that she would allow him to enjoy his. Perhaps she merely wished to toy with him before shattering his newly reforged kingdom. Perhaps he had simply managed to evade her gaze thus far.

Perhaps…

A black cloud moved suddenly, blocking out the sun, and Perenolde shivered despite the heat, distracted from his thoughts. He watched it move across the sky, baffled at its seemingly random movements as it rose and fell in and out of eclipse with the sun. As the dark shape grew larger and nearer, he suddenly realized that it was no true cloud at all.

It was a dragon.

As the massive creature descended, Perenolde took in its features with fear. He recalled another time, long past, when he had spotted a great beast such as this one on his horizon. It had been the day that the Horde had come to claim Alterac – the day that he had shed his soul.

Far more frightening, however, was the knowledge that this beast now approaching was no living drake. The behemoth was not of the vital breed which had breathed fire and terrorized enemies of the orcs; there were many holes in its wings, and its flesh seemed to hang from its protruding bones. There was a general dim glow about the creature which seemed to signify its defeat before the powers that insisted on its continued existence, and looking at it, Perenolde could not be sure that, if not for the magic that had raised it, it would fly at all.

The dragon was a frost wyrm, a frightening war engine of the Scourge… and it had a rider, who generated equal dread in Perenolde's heart as the stranger's identity became apparent.

"Woah, Sapphiron," Arthas said, as he guided the beast to a landing near the bottom of the amphitheater.

"Prince Arthas," Perenolde gasped, "I didn't kn–"

"King Arthas," the younger man corrected. "This is my kingdom now."

"King Arthas… of course, my Lord. How may I aid the Lich King?" Perenolde bowed slightly as he spoke, glancing to either side.

"There's no one to see you, Lord Perenolde, so don't worry. As angry as I am at your attempt to fill my throne, your influence on these humans is useful to me at present, so I will allow you to keep up this… façade."

"As you wish, my Prince… my King. How may I please the Frozen Throne?"

"The Frozen Throne is destroyed, Perenolde. The Lich King is dead or banished, I know and care not which. His order is broken, and the time for a new order has come… my order."

"Ner'zhul… is gone? I am afraid I do not understand, Lord."

"It's not important that you understand. All you must know is that you serve me now, as does the entirety of the Scourge."

"What of the dissidents, my King? Sylvanas and her Forsaken, as she calls them?"

"That shall continue to be your task, Perenolde – but where you have failed for Ner'zhul and for yourself, now you shall succeed for me." From his belt, Arthas detached a long scabbard, which he handed to the older knight. Perenolde accepted it slowly, a confused expression playing across his face.

He drew out the blade halfway from the scabbard. It glinted brightly in the morning sun, the gold runes engraved on it dancing like embers in a hearth. Perenolde read the runes skeptically.

"Doomsong? What's wrong with my old Runeblade?"

"I doubt you can find it now, and it will be of no use to you if you can. It's powers have faded with the Lich King's. His covenant with you, forged with his Runeblades for his Death Knights, his chosen, is broken. I bring you this blade as a token of my new covenant with you. You shall be the first of my Dread Knights, my champion among my champions in the days to come. Beginning here, you shall retake the kingdoms that the Scourge once held, and then those that have been kept from us. Today is born the Empire that shall span the world over… my Empire."

"But my Lord!" Perenolde exclaimed, before he could stop himself, "I am not the knight you believe me to be. Death Knight, Dread Knight, it is all the same… and I am not that man. I do not have the heart, the will of a murderer any longer." He sighed, lifting the sword, still hanging out of its scabbard, back towards Arthas. "I'm sorry, my King… but I simply haven't the will."

Arthas laughed.

"Of course you haven't – you never did. That's why you're so perfect for your task. Ner'zhul made one mistake: he chose someone strong to be his champion, too strong… stronger than himself. Now I have destroyed him for that mistake, and his choices are mine to make over as I see fit, his failings mine to correct. You haven't the will to do this, I know… and that's why you'll do it, because you haven't the will to resist it, either."

Perenolde tried to open his mouth and object, but his lips would not part. His voice died in his throat and his limbs refused to respond. He was frozen in place, incapable of arguing with his master or even evading Arthas' gaze.

"Why do you suppose you walked this morning in this forsaken place? Not because you chose to. This amphitheater is secluded, abandoned, perfect for this meeting. I chose this place, and without even realizing it, you followed my direction."

I like this place! Perenolde tried to scream, but again, his mouth refused to budge.

"No, you prefer the crowd of the ruined city, where you can be seen and can relish in your status and rank. This place is far too devoid of gawkers to suit your taste… but I bid you come here, alone, and you came." Arthas turned back to his mount, and from a place just behind its head, where a saddle had been strapped, a young woman took the prince's hand and descended.

She appeared to be unarmed, and she was clothed in a hooded cloak which identified her to Perenolde as an acolyte of the Cult of the Damned, Ner'zhul's false church among the living. A single strand of raven hair fell out of the woman's hood, which obscured her face. Behind her, Arthas climbed up onto the frost wyrm's neck, into the saddle.

"Her name is Deirdre, and she shall aid you in what you are to do. At noon tomorrow, you will attack the capitol city and push Sylvanas and her rebels out for good. You will succeed, because I will it so." With that, the great undead dragon gave a mighty beat of its wings, and the King of the Scourge disappeared again into the clear morning sky, leaving his servants to ready themselves for battle.