But the Plaguelands weren't safe for him anymore.
And now, two days after he had sent the letter, his fears were coming true. Time was running short - only five days left - and he had only three Barovs with him now.
Holy Light, he prayed inwardly, punish me, but leave Kel'Thuzad alone...
Please...
Not a poetic prayer, he commented bitterly as he watched the distant outlines of Stratholme. He tried to force himself to think that there maybe is a chance, that he still may succeed...
Who am I kidding...?
Kel... if only you knew...
North-west of the continent there was a plagued land that still fought hard for its life. The noble High Elves stood fast in what remained of their ancient homeland. They did their best - and succeeded. Despite of the blight and death that ravaged through their land, trees still grew and animals lived.
Yet there was much that still needed doing. The elves' primary goal is to defend themselves and secure a possibility to act.
The leader of their main defensive force - in fact, a rebellion - was now sitting at the northern shore of Quel'Thalas, gazing at the direction of the island where the fouled Sunwell stood. Wind danced in between her long, brown braids and her pointy half-elven ears.
She sighed heavily.
An archer approached her.
'Ishnu-ala, my lady.' she bowed. The half-elf turned to her. 'There is someone that wishes to see you.'
The guest was dresed in long blue robes, woven with golden thread. As the ranger approached, the lady in blue removed her hood, revealing golden hair and a bright face.
'Jaina!' the half-elf gasped.
'Finnall Goldensword.' the archmage smiled broadly. 'Eldest daughter of my father.
'Jaina, by the Light, what are you doing back here? Theramore...'
'Theramore is safe even without me. There is something I would like you to do for me...'
Finnall raised one brown eyebrow.
'I will need a horse and some supplies for my men.'
'What for?'
'Long story.'
'Tell me.'
'No time!' Jaina snapped. 'I must make haste. Someone is in big, I mean big trouble out in the Plaguelands!'
The half-elf grinned widely. Her thin face suddenly seemed much wider, and her eyes burnt with an eager fire. Her half-sister thought that now she is much more than a leader. She looks like a queen.
Good wife for the poor heartbroken Kael, she thought bitterly.
Finnall replied: 'You can count on me, Jaina. I will give you a horse, supplies and men. In fact, I will go along.'
Jaina's jaw fell open. 'But-'
'No buts.' the ranger gazed at the setting sun. 'Ready when you are, sister.'
Four days, Light dammit! And I am stuck in this crumbling, desolate village with three undead men by my side. I can get slain at any moment.
Joy.
Four bloody days!
There was slight movement outside the crumbling house he was no in. Alexiei must be patrolling, Arthas told himself. Illucia and Jandice may be now checking the alarm spell - the only one they dared to cast in order not to attract too much attention.
Especially Gandling's.
Suddenly heavy footsteps of the patrolling death knight ceased. Arthas approached a window silently and wiped the thick layer of dirt and dust as best as he could. He peeked through carefully. He watched.
Barov stood straight, his hand gripping his runeblade firmly. His eyes were fixed before him, eyebrows narrowed. But he did not flee.
My faithful knight, Arthas smiled grimly. If only your allegiance was enough...
Finaly, after a few long moments of unease silence, two horsemen approached the motionless death knight. Horsewomen, actually. Arthas recognized the one on the white steed, a girl dressed in blue robes and a blue woven cape. A hood his her face, so that the king could not see it from this angle. But he didn't need to.
Bless you, Jaina Proudmoore!
Barov was talking to the ladies the very moment Arthas burst out of the old house.
'My king...'
'Not a word, Alexiei!' the king said firmly.
And he knelt.
The half-elf on the black horse gazed wide-eyed as the blonde archmage coughed.
'Arthas...'
'What the bloody hell is going on here?' Finnall burst out, gazing at the other rider.
'I was just going to ask the very same question.' Barov mumbled. 'My king...?'
'Long story short.' Arthas began eagerly. 'I asked Jaina to help us save Kel'Thuzad.' Alexiei ndded. His king turned back to Finnall. 'Because I am human again.'
The half-elf rebel snorted with laughter. She eyes the ashen face of the undead ruler with a nasty grin. She threw one brown braid to her side.
'If you had told me, I'd never come, sister.' Arthas blinked. Sister? 'Human again, good joke...'
She turned her black steed around, ready to take off. Jaina reached out with her hand, wanting to say something, to keep her there... but it was not her who stopped Finnall.
'Wait.'
The calm, cold voice made the ranger turn around once more. Barov spoke directly to her, his ice-blue eyes fixed at her amber ones.
'You were saying...?'
Alexiei did something Arthas is going to remember for a very long time. If he was able to focus back there - shocked by his servant's actions - he would promise him everything he wished. Maybe he'd even cry.
'My lady,' Barov bowed lightly before Finnall 'if you please dismounted, you could see the proof that my king does not lie.'
The half-elf sent a question look at Jaina, who nodded. Her face was firm and serious; the ranger dismounted and glared at Barov.
He grabbed Arthas by the shoulders and pulled him up to his feet.
'Now look him in the eyes.'
Finnall did. She gazed deep into them for many long moments of silence, both of them motionless. Barov realized he is holding his breath. Finally, the elven ranger blinked. She focused on the poisonous green of Arthas' eyes, the colour of disease and insanity. But there was something wrong with it, a tiny detail she could not find.
And then she knew it.
Around the pool of green there was a thin ring of blue.
Finnall looked at Jaina, shocked, and then at Alexiei.
Eyes reflect the soul.
She nodded.
'Finnall Goldensword is the oldest daughter of Daelin Proudmoore.' Jaina explained with a nasty grin. 'Her mother was a renowed elven mage of the Kirin Tor.'
'But...' Arthas mumbled.
'It was before my father married my mother. He left after a short stay in Dalaran, and when he returned - married already - Finnall was still an infant.'
'That's a complicated family tree...' the king commented. The girl patted him at one shoulder.
'You'll get used to it. The problem is Finnall.' she paused. 'She saw you slay her mother.'
There was silence.
The sunrays, turned purple by the toxic air of the Plaguelands, fell with their usual golden grace on the white stoned of the Scarlet Basilica. The white and crimson banners flapped gently with the slight wind. The bastion of the Scarlet Crusade - called by them Tyr's Hand - was located in south-western part of the Plaguelands. And at the same time was one of two places there that remained green and unblighted. The Crusade built magnificent strongholds in Tyr's Hand and Heartglenn to the west and stood fast in their mission. Yet no one dared to ask how come the plague has not reached those places.
Or how were they purified.
An old, grey-haired man in white robes roamed across the tranquil gardens of Tyr's Hand, watching the green. He smiled gently.
'Sir...'
The man turned around slowly. A young blonde lady stood at the garden gate. She was dressed in light mail armour - crimson of course - and was panting heavily.
The priest's smile vanished. 'Wat has happened, child?'
'A message from Stratholme, sir!' she breathed. She held out a hand that was squeezing a sealed envelope. The robed man approached her and grabbed it. Nodding, he broke the scarlet seal and rad the neat, somewhat inhuman handwriting.
He felt the eerie force emanating from the parchment. He also knew what it may mean. And he ignored it.
Because humans see what they wish to.
After a brief moment of silence, the priest gave an order:
'Rally the troops. On the double.'
'This plan is insane, Arthas.' Jaina commented.
'It just may work.' the king pointed at a very old, yellow piece of a map.' We'd have to lure them out of there somehow.'
Finnall eyed the map, eyebrows narrowed. 'Wish you luck then.' she mumbled. 'How on Azeroth are you going to do that?'
Arthas shrugged. The rest sighed althogether. The day was almost at its end. Soon they will have only three more left. The sun went down very fast, as if on purpose. The plae moon rose shyly to take its place. Alexiei Barov gazed at it, his nerves tensing. So little time and so little done...
His king thought the very same. Only that now he again had someone to pray to.
'My king...' Illucia said shyly. All eyes turned to her. 'I think I have an idea that just might help.'
'Speak.' Arthas encouraged her.
'Jandice and I can prepare something for you, my king.'
They all listened closely as she explained her plan detail by detail. And, one by one, wide grins appeared on their faces. Not all is lost yet.
Only that when they finish, they will have just one day left.
Here is where it all began.
Once a mighty stronghold of the Barov family, Caer Darrow on Darrowmere Lake was in ruin. Its grey walls were devastated, the gate broken, and houses crumbled. The keep no longer had a roof either, and the only sign of any activity within it was a fireplace burning with eerie colours.
But in truth, deep under Caer Darrow, were complex corridors and dungeons. Those that lived in this place, known as Scholomance, hung shredded banners on Caer Darrow's gates.
Banners of the Lich King.
Years ago, on his behalf, a guest came to the Barovs. A mysterious guest who later appeared to be none other than the necromancers Kel'Thuzad himself. It was him who formed Scholomance, the school of dark arts, and shortly after his arrival things changed at the keep. There were experiments. Chants. Rituals. Slaughter.
Because the Cult of the Damned was formed.
After some time Kel'Thuzad had to leave Caer Darrow to oversee the spreading of the Scourge in Lordaeron. He left a powerful warlock named Gandling in charge. He was the most powerful after Kel'Thuzad himself, a headmaster in a dark school. He and his students were responsible for maintaining the plague cauldrons in Arthas' land.
Now he broke free. And the Cult joined his rebellion.
Gandling sat in his headmaster's chair and grinned. Of all the undead, he knew the best what is happening to Arthas and how to use it for his own benefit.
Free will is a wonderful thing, he thought. The Barovs should be dead by now. And even if not, they soon will be.
He laughed insanely. For he was insane. For human standards, that is. He was a completely normal undead.
All the teachers should have strenghtened the spells by now. Soon, more undead shall come to Scholomance, rallied under his own, black banner... How sweet is the taste of power! And he wants more. More.
A knock on the door brought him back to Azeroth.
'Who's there?' he asked coldly. All undead were cold.
'Malicia, master.' a female voice from beyong the door replied. 'I bring dire news!'
'Enter.'
The door creaked open as Malicia came in. She was an undead High Elf, but - unlike the rest - her face was not grey and her hair not black. She looked as she always did. She gazed at Gandling's face - or more like that part of it that was visible above the veil. The headmaster liked secrecy. Very much.
'Speak.' he ordered shortly. If it's Arthas he thought, I'll get mad.
'Ras reports that the Crusade is marching towards us from the east.' Malicia said. Gandling raised an eyebrow.
'The Crusade?'
'He has seen them, master. They will attack.'
The warlock nodded. Sure he did. Liches have their ways.
'When has he seen them then?'
'Just a minute ago, master. I came here immidiately.'
Another nod. 'How far where they?'
'Nearing they river, master.'
Gandling sneered under the veil. They will be at the keep in less than three hours if the march swiftly. And they do, oh, they do. The Crusade is always swift and deadly.
They have very little time.
'We must move!'
Let us move back a bit north and east once more, back to the great city of Stratholme. Past its untouched walls and gates one would not notice a single change. There were corpses of men and undead still laying amongst ashes of their homes. No one even bothered to clean the city up. Members of the Scarlet Crusade just walked amongst those scened of slaughter and devastation, ignoring even the overwhelming stench of decay. There were little of them left after the fight for Stratholme and now they awaited reinforcements.
If only Arthas knew that...
But let us move a bit deeper into the city. Somewhere at its devastated streets there was an old and rusty gate of bars. It led to the city dungeons. Down in their dark, wet and winding corridors there were many cells, big and small, but only one occupied.
Bones rattled against stone and chains as Kel'Thuzad laid himself on the cold floor. If skeletons could make faces, he would now grin very nastily.
His bluff seems to be working.
And he has another plan ready...
End of ch. II.