"Empire of Death"
By Forever Jake
Chapter 4
"Arise, Prince Kael. We have work to do."
The Blood Mage had been seated in meditation on the floor of the cave where Arthas had left him, his eyes closed, mind blank. His pain had further diminished, but he could still sense it waiting on the edge of his mind, daring him to attempt a spell. At the sound of his master's voice, the elf's eyes flew open, and he pushed himself up off of the floor with a slight groan.
"My Lord," he said, bowing slightly as he rose. Arthas was standing at the entrance to the chamber.
"Come," Arthas interrupted. "It is time that you saw." He extended his palm to the mage, and Kael took it.
They walked slowly out of the cave; a narrow entryway served as transition between the dim inner chamber and the bright afternoon outdoors. As Kael stepped timidly out into the sunlight, his heart fluttered. This was the land I left behind.
He recognized the location. They were on a hilltop overlooking a segment of winding valley that stretched away from them to southwest. Behind them, the valley split into a series of dry canyons which became the northern edge of the Alterac Mountains, and the westernmost borders of the Realm Eternal.
"Look ahead, Prince Kael. At the end of this valley, the ruins of Capitol City lie." Images came, unbidden, to Kael's mind: Garithos. Vashj. Sylvanas.
Sylvanas.
"Yes, Kael. The ruined city is now Sylvanas' domain – for the present. After you left, she used your late commander, Garithos, to oust the other undead from the area, and then turned on Garithos himself. His successor, Sir Perenolde, rules over the remaining humans at Dalaran."
"Perenolde? The Death Knight?" Kael had heard much of the former general of the Scourge.
"Dread Knight, now. Yes, Perenolde and his humans belong to me now. It is by them that I shall take back the Capitol City and be rid of Sylvanas forever."
"And what shall I do, Lord?"
"That is the second time you have called me 'Lord', Kael. While I certainly prefer that to 'Prince', it is not my title."
"I see, master. You would prefer that I address you as... King?"
"Yes. This is, after all my kingdom. I expect nothing less than the utmost respect from my subjects, even my favored ones."
"Of course... King Arthas. It's just that... well..."
"What is it?"
"I'm simply not used to this business of Kings at all."
"Oh?"
"In Quel'thalas, there was no one ruling figure. We had a council of Lords and Princes which decided all the matters of state, and three Speakers which directed the council."
"Where you one of these Lords and Princes, Kael?" The elven mage blushed slightly.
"No, master. I had not yet passed the age requirement for the council when my kingdom fell. I had planned to..." His voice fell suddenly silent. He dropped his gaze to the ground.
"To what, Kael?" Arthas goaded him. Kael swallowed and forced himself to look Arthas in the eye.
"I had planned to begin serving on the council when my tour of duty was completed... but I was still away when the Scourge... destroyed everything."
"I see." Arthas paused, and then said, "I won't pretend I am sorry for your people, Kael. I did what had to be done to ensure my own victory. Do you hate me for it?" He is testing me, Kael realized. He tightened his jaw.
"No," he answered at last. "Had I been present, I would not have been able to stop you. I would have died among my people... now I find myself alive, and in your service." He sighed again. "I, like you, will do what must be done to achieve my aims. I aim for my people to survive and preserve our race, and as that requires siding with you, my would-be enemy, I will do as you ask without question. I have eaten of your tainted feast, Arthas, and I bear now the scars of my own corruption, not yours."
Arthas grinned. "Good."
"What do you will... my King?" Kael now wore an expression of confusion. "It would seem that I am powerless. Though your own powers have healed me, I fear I cannot return your aid as of yet."
"I cannot restore you completely, Kael, and neither can Time itself. One power only can return to you what you lost... the fountain that first entrusted itself to you."
"The Sunwell?"
"Yes, the Sunwell. After this land belongs once more to its rightful King, I shall turn to Silvermoon and the near-empty well it guards. Then you shall regain your powers in full, Prince Kael; this I promise you."
"And for now?"
"For now, all I require is that you stay alive. I have no need of your services, save that." Arthas was staring out at the valley, towards the Capitol City and his unseen enemy, Sylvanas. "Go to your blood cousin, the Dark Lady. She, like you, has some destiny in Silvermoon; this much I have foreseen. Find her, and ensure that her interests do not further jeopardize our own."
"If that is your wish, my King." Kael's tone was reluctant.
"It is. I will watch over your people, and in Silvermoon you shall reunite with them, and both of your curses shall be lifted."
"What if Sylvanas refuses my company? How can I know she will trust me?"
"I know she will not; kin though you are, her disdain for the living will come between you. She will not suspect my hand, however, and she will accompany you to the Sunwell."
"How can you know this?" Arthas smiled.
"Let it be enough for now that I know. Now run along, little Prince."
"But my King!" Kael protested. "I am crippled without my magic! Am I to trust my safety to the Dark Lady?"
"No, Kael," Arthas replied, his voice smooth and parental. "You are to trust your safety to me."
Kael was out of pleas; the conversation was over. He could not answer Arthas' godlike promises, for there was no answer to give. He would do as his King demanded, for his people's sake, even if that meant his own life was forfeit.
The elf sat, alone, on the hillside, long after Arthas had left him. He sat and waited as time, in its endless enigma, swirled around him as unreadable as arcane stars and as impenetrable as opaque water. He did not understand why it was necessary that he travel with Sylvanas, or why the prospect of their reunion filled him with such dread. She was not his sister, his lover, nor his friend. In life, he had scarcely known her; in death, she could hardly even be considered his own race. She was a stranger, an interloper, unconnected to him in any way.
Why then should the image of her, dead but living, chill him so?
Deirdre crossed the field atop a proud, white-haired steed, her own dark locks accompanying her twilight-colored robes in strange contrast to the horse's bright appearance. Stranger still was her disposition, for her usual brooding features had been replaced for the moment with some that better matched her mount than her clothing. She felt ecstatic, nearly giddy, her grim inclination to dwell on the darkest side of her situation temporarily forgotten.
Battle always made her cheerful.
Beside her, in fitting juxtaposition, rode a rather melancholy Sir Perenolde. He was clad in his familiar Death Knight's armor, Doomsong hanging ominously from his belt. His soldiers were not alarmed by his garb, for they had seen him in such regalia many times. Most believed he had stolen it from a body, perhaps some Scourge general he had slain in battle. No one knew the truth.
The dark and stormy Knight, as Deirdre thought of him, seemed little impressed with his new status and sword, and less still with his mission. His low spirits rivaled Deirdre's usual personality in their sheer gloominess. She didn't quite understand his reluctance to destroy a foe that long accosted him, to remove a large threat to his people, and to end for the immediate future the bloodshed in the region. Sylvanas seemed to be at the center of all his troubles – why then did the prospect of crushing her make him so sad? Deirdre simply did not understand.
She decided she didn't care – after all, there was going to be a battle. And battles always made her cheerful. Besides, if he wanted to spend his morning in the doldrums, that was his choice. She even fancied it made him rather handsome.
The pair had reached the front of the army. The force had been assembled hastily but carefully; Perenolde, despite he preoccupation, was no fool when it came to war, and he knew how to rally soldiers. They commanded several large battalions of mounted knights, as well as a substantial infantry. Rarer were spellcasters, as the already short ranks of wizards, sorceresses and priests in the kingdom had met with substantial casualties with the consecutive falls of Silvermoon and Dalaran. Though the Alliance had managed to retake the latter city, the preliminary defeats had made significant dents in the number of mages available to fight.
In this respect, the Alliance today possessed a fresh advantage. Strategically interspersed among groups of warriors were a large number of men and women in black cloaks that matched Deirdre's own garb. Deployed in groups of two or three accompanying squads of human warriors, the necromancers were charged with bolstering the Alliance army with anything either side managed to kill. Word had been spread among the living soldiers identifying the black mages and what they would do. While the majority of the troops appeared uneasy at working alongside such spellcasters, Deirdre did not doubt that they would honor their allegiance to Perenolde and ask their questions after the fighting.
If there were still people to ask, of course. Deirdre wondered what would befall the humans once they had lived out their usefulness to Arthas. She hoped it involved death.
Death made her cheerful as well. She supposed it was death that made battle so enjoyable.
Today she was going to see much of both.