"Empire of Death"
By Forever Jake
Chapter 5
Sylvanas, the voice called, echoing through the endless tunnels of her mind like footsteps in a long, dark corridor. Sylvanas, my child, it said. The ranger stirred slightly in her sleep, one ear bending slightly beneath the weight of her head against her pillow, but did not wake.
I know you can hear me, Sylvanas. She stirred again, rolling over to her other side, as though seeking to escape some bright light being shined in her face. Her eyes remained shut.
Stop running, my child. Stop and listen. I have much to tell you. In her sleep, her hand found the pillow and pulled it over her head. The voice did not stop.
You have run too long from me, it cooed, always in a hurry to leave me. She kicked mindlessly, her foot striking the wooden footboard of the bed. You know I miss you so.
An image was appearing in her mind. She squeezed her eyes tighter, as though she did not want to see it. It was a green hill, and on the hill she stood – not her dead, gray form, but young and vibrant, bright and alive. She turned to look over the top of the hill, and her mind's eye followed her younger self's gaze. There, in the valley below, stretched a great city – Silvermoon.
Proud towers scraped the sky as proud elven men and women moved about on their daily travels beneath them. Trees framed in the metropolis at every turn, creating an illusion of wilderness. The sun shone down, unwavering, upon the city and its people.
She blinked.
In an instant, the vision changed. The sun turned a desolate gray, dark clouds clustering around it. Loud, booming thunder replaced the sounds of wildlife and civilization as rain fell, splattering off of the towers and drenching the people below. Sylvanas' stomach turned as she waited for what she knew was coming.
Nothing happened. The sun flitted in and out from behind the thunderheads, sprinkling the downpour with shifting bars of light. Below, the people smiled and laughed – a sun shower, of all things! They were supposed to be omens of change, someone said, and another joked about there perhaps being an end to that troublesome little war to the west.
After a few moments, the clouds vanished, perhaps as quickly as they had arisen. The sun returned in full force, and puddles evaporated from the ground.
The citizens, having escaped being wet or endured it for a few minutes, went about their business, believing that the worst part of their day was over. Sylvanas stared on, motionless.
She remembered how it had happened that day. Death had not come with dark skies or cruel thunder. It had come with cheerful, harmless sunlight and merciful summer breezes. It had come in the form of a grinning, blonde knight in armor that shimmered in the sun.
As she watched from her vantage point on the hill, Arthas emerged from an opening in one section of trees. He smiled.
Sylvanas fought the urge to vomit. She squeezed her eyes tightly, but the voice cut once again through her mind, cold and clear.
You must watch, it said, and Sylvanas made herself obey.
She made herself watch as the Death Knight raised his sword and cried his foul cry. She made herself obey as the impossible numbers of ghouls and crypt fiends surged out of the forest, plowing over soldiers and civilians alike in their bloodlust. She made herself watch as Arthas climbed the hill where she stood firing arrows into the fray, lifting his cursed blade and piercing her chest with it.
Writhing in her bed, she subconsciously put a fingertip to the wound beneath her nightgown.
She watched herself fall to the ground, her bow leaving her dead hands. She watched herself rise again and descend the hill into the fray. She watched herself murder dozens of her own people, her own brothers and cousins, while he stood atop the hill, looking down and laughing.
The vision began to darken. Tears were streaming down her face, soaking the sheets. Remember what was done, she heard the voice say. Remember what was done, so that it can be undone.
The vision had darkened to a tiny circle, where she could see the vague outline of the Sunwell. Its waters had already begun to darken, the foul magics of the runed sword taking their toll.
Go there, the voice said. Go there, and your people's fates may be reversed... if there is time. She kicked out again and again, as though in the grip of some agonizing seizure. Her bare foot struck the wood footboard, scratching and denting it. It bent in, crumpling beneath her maddened strength.
As it snapped in two, the vision vanished and her eyes opened.
She sat on the bed, breathing heavily, for a long time, the vision and the voice moving in and out of her thoughts. She touched her face, feeling the damp lines of the tears she had shed.
It was the first time she had cried since her death. She hadn't thought she could cry, until now. Perhaps she couldn't. Perhaps this, too, was some strange dream, from which she would soon wake to find her usual nightmarish existence waiting for her.
After a time, her breathing slowed again, and she fell back into the sheets with a final sigh. Her eyes closed, the image of the Sunwell returning, unbidden, to her mind. The voice, too, echoed softly in her ear, like the dying words of a mother or sister.
Go, it said.
Go.
Go.
Arthas crossed the threshold silently, his cloak disguising him as naught but a shadow as he ducked under the top of the doorway and into a large room. The Undercity was still cloaked in darkness despite the sunlight above; that was an advantage in being underground. Arthas feared no detection. Most undead were by instinct nocturnal, and he could deal with the one or two he expected to encounter.
It had been many weeks since he had been to this place. In his absence, Sylvanas had made the Undercity flourish. It was now a veritable paradise for the dead, a thousand interconnecting chambers, a combination of sunken structures and newly-dug tunnels. Was this the room where his father had died? There were many that had been made to look intentionally alike, and now, with the city's destruction evident in the condition of the rooms, it was impossible to guess. It made him smile to think that this was the same room, however, and so he decided it must be.
He passed from the throne room and into a narrow passage, gliding over flagstones and past torches as he made his way towards the crypt. At the end of the hall, he encountered a lone guard, a Nerubian. He restrained himself from drawing his sword, and smiled at the creature. He spoke but a single whispered word, and the sentinel scurried away. He would not be disturbed.
He stepped through the doorway, his nostrils taking in the stench of decomposition. He had found his quarry. Against the rear wall, a figure had been chained, positioned to face the wall so that he could not see a person entering the room. The prisoner's form was vague, obscured by pounds of white webbing which had practically encased him. Arthas moved forward to touch the figure's shoulder.
"I knew you would come," said a voice. Arthas smiled.
He reached forward with both hands, prying sections of webbing from the prisoner's prone form. Little by little, the biological chains were stripped clean like flesh from a corpse, revealing the skeleton below.
"Kel'thuzad," Arthas said. "We have much to talk about."
Sylvanas stirred again, her eyes opening in narrow slits. It was later than before. The sunlight now streamed through her tiny window, a testament to the hour. Hers was one of few chambers in the Undercity that allowed the light in, as most of her minions preferred the darkness. It was late morning, she guessed, perhaps a couple of hours before noon. She rose from the bed and shed her nightgown, crossing the floor to where her armor and cloak hung on the far wall. She feared no intrusion; her minions knew that her quarters were private. A necromancer had attempted to enter once, a prisoner captured in a skirmish with the Scourge who entertained the fantasy that he could woo her and thereby make a place for himself at the head of the Forsaken. His body was displayed for a fortnight in the main hall, and his head was never seen again. No one else had ever bothered Sylvanas in her bedroom.
She pulled the armor on slowly. She was in no rush, for she never was. The day would be waiting to greet her when she was ready. She yawned and stretched, her mind idly reaching out to touch those of her sisters and minions. She closed her eyes as she watched in her mind those who slept, and the few who patrolled the outer corridors. In the short time she had led the Forsaken, no enemy had reached the outskirts of the Undercity to challenge her. The Scourge and the Alliance each maintained strongholds nearby, and thanks to her unique tactical position beneath the ground, they tended to encounter and embattle each other before they could reach her.
Her eyes opened widely. There was an intruder in the city. She could see him vaguely, his aura flashing in her mind. Where was he? She pushed outward with her mind, contacting each of her sisters in turn, looking through their eyes. He was not in the graveyard or the necropolis... He was not in the main hall, although it was possible he had been there, for her ghouls detected the scent of an intruder there... Where was he?
The crypt. Of course. She cursed aloud.
Kel'thuzad.
One of the patrolling banshees asked if they should move in on the intruder, but Sylvanas stopped her, ordering that a cadre surround the crypt but wait for her order before entering. She did not want to the intruder to kill Kel'thuzad out of panic. He was still of use to her.
He must tell me what I want to know about the Sunwell.
The Sunwell...
She had to reach him before anything could happen. She had to...