I just wanted to say I'm sorry if the plot is unclear. When I began this I wasn't really sure where I want to get this, and I'm still not exactly concerned, but thngs will begin to clarify... I hope. Thanks for being with me despite this chaos!
Troops had reached their destination. The crimson army stood before the stone bridge leading straight to Caer Darrow. The warrior had seen the crumbling walls, hid in the toxic, oddly orange air, and the flapping navy banners of the Lich King.
Before the army stood a rider. It was the old, grey-haired priest that received the message just a few hours ago. He was entrusted with leading the assault.
He gazed up at the ruined keep. There were unnumbered undead down in the dungeons. Light knows if they can actually win. Perhaps there was too few of them - and that's what he feared. But the others would not wait for reinforcements from Tirisfal.
Now or never.
Light be with us...
Something moved in Caer Darrow. Slow, heavy steps echoed, but they were steps of bare feet. A few hideous, dark-green and twisted corpses moved to the gates, but did not cross them. Few lines of mindless zombies gave cover to the warlocks and necromancers of the Cult of the Damned.
Defenders halways have the advantage, the head priest thought...
Up at the hill behind the walls, at the very entrance to Scholomance, stood one more human figure. A tall man dressed in completely black robes with a hood. His eyes shone with brilliance and insanity. He hid his ashen face under a veil.
Gandling.
'Greetings, mighty Crusaders!' he bellowed. 'We have been expecting you!'
Oh, yes?
'I suppose you might have.' the priest called back. 'But that does not matter. We came here to continue our crusade!'
Gandling grinned. 'I would love to see you break through my defenses! With each of you fallen one of us rises!' he laughed. It was a loud, insane laugh that chilled the humans to the bone.
The head priest clenched his teeth. 'We shall not fall! In nomine Lucis et pater Benedicti!'
The headmaster shiverred. An icy chill ran down his spine. What the hell, he thought, their Holy Light is just a myth!
Yes, just a myth. But Gandling seems to have forgotten one little detail. It is the will, the faith. Just like magic. In all the worlds - be it Azeroth, Draenor or our own - magic is a force field. It is the strong will, imagination and faith in magic that forms it into spells. This rule works also for religion.
It is not about the deity, but the strenght of faith.
The Crusaders rushed.
And instantly the small island of Caer Darrow was painted with their blood. The mindless zombies were not much of a challenge, but enough to kill some of the attackers. And the necromancers did not wait. With each falled human one undead rose...
Gandling stood atop the hill and kept laughing. And laughing.
It was a one-sided battle. And ended as soon as began. The cultists from Scholomance gathered the Scarlet corpses and formed one great pile of bodies. Fresh material that will soon become fine undead.
Somewhere in that pile laid the mutilated body of the head priest.
Dathrohan surveyed the blackened street. Then his gaze moved to the barred prison. One more day and the lich lands in the boneyard. For good.
He grinned. How sweet tastes a victory you can bathe in, the one you can use... for vengeance.
Do your best, Arthas, I want that head.
But either way, I shall have you all!
He would laugh, but a familiar, eager voice from beyond the walls bellowed:
'Dathrohan!'
Within the next few minutes he was up above the main gate, gazing down. There were four people before him: Arthas and his Barov lackeys.
Dathrohan's eyes widened.
One of the cultist ladies down there held something he recognized at an instant. It was big, white, horned, dripping with dark blood and very, very surprised.
Varimathras' head!
'I have done my part.' Arthas said, his voice low and eyebrows narrowed. He looked grim, determined and dead serious.
A true undead king.
'Now it's your turn!'
'I am very impressed, your honour!' Dathrohan said. He clapped his hands. 'I applaud you, good king! You made it just in time. Indeed you did.'
'Free him!' Arthas hissed.
Dathrohan blinked, taken aback. Things were getting a bit out of hand. But he can't panic. Now in front of them, for heaven's sake!
He waved at a guard, who left the walls instantly. The next few minutes stretched into eternity, the pond of dark blood growing bigger undead the severed head.
How on Azeroth did they manage with just four men!
The guard returned soon. Rattling of chains accompanied his heavy steps as he crossed the gates. The legless skeleton of Kel'Thuzad followed him grimly. He did not show a single emotion, though under the mask he was completely shocked. Just like Dathrohan did, he knew this was impossible.
Illucia threw the head towards the gate Blood splattered all around the white stone bridge in grotesque patterns, the surprised, blurred glass eyes gazing up into vein. The lich sent it a blank brief stare which quickly returned back to his king's determined face.
He barely managed to keep control over himself.
The blue rings in Arthas' eyes were growing.
Dathrohan sneered and waved at the guard once more. The man produced a small silver key and released kel'Thuzad, growling. The lich quickly floated toards the four undead, sighing with inner relief.
The Grand Crusader said noting more. He withdrew from the walls, almost running, fury overwhelming him. On his way back towards the Crimson Throne, deep in Stratholme's cathedral, he paid attention to nothing. He did not know when he stumbled across his own servants, because it was them who fell over. He did not notice when it began to rain.
He did not even know that when the guards reach down for Varimathras' head, there was nothing to take.
Finnall gazed accusingly at the pale moon, as if it was its fault that night came. It was cold in this part of the Plaguelands but she did not bother with putting on any warmer cloak or coat. Years of war made her a tough warrior and merciless enemy.
Moonlight shone in her amber eyes an she stood at the road of Terrordale, frozen in place.
Light curse you, Arthas, curse you for eternity! Human again you may be, but we elves never forget the past.
Jaina is a fool! Blinded but what you once were. But I know you're not anymore. You weren't when you severed my mother's head. There is one saying in Quel'Thalas, you know. Blood for blood. I do not care who now leads the Scourge, whom should I fear nor who you now are. I've sworn vengeance and I shall have it.
Bandu thoribas, Arthas! Blood for blood!
'Are you alright, Kel?' Arthas asked.
The lich nodded, deciding to ignore the way his king called him. The death knight seemed to have noticed that the name slipped from his lips. He did his best to keep a straight face.
'They did nothing to me, my king.' Kel'Thuzad said. 'I managed to concentrate their atention on a different goal.'
Arthas raised an eyebrow quetioningly, but before he could ask, the lich burst out:
'The living! What are they doing here!'
'Easy there, lich.' Alexiei Barov said coldly. Jaina and Finnall remained expressionless in their seats before what remained of Terrordale inn.
'They're friends.' the death knight finished.
Kel'Thuzad would not believe him that easily. Finnall gave him real hell, assaulting villages and towns of the Scourge under his command. He does not trust her.
And that Proudmoore girl. She was with Arthas when they sle him, Kel'Thuzad. The one who resisted both the plague and lust for vengeance. A little brat who nearly ruined everything.
He could never ever trust her either.
'Living cannot be friends with undead.' he snapped at Barov.
'On the contrary, lich.' Jaina cut in. 'You surely know there is something wrong with your precious king.'
Arthas nodded as the empty eyes turned to him. Of course Kel'Thuzad knew. He used it in his bluff. But...
He looked into his king's eyes once more.
'Kel, you must believe us.' Arthas said, his voice weak. he didn't sound like ruler who claimed Icecrown at all. 'I have only three warriors of my own. Lost contact with Anub'arak. I need everyone I can find... even if I risk sudden death.'
Finnall blinked. She should have known he doesn't trust her.
But that doesn't matter...
Kel'Thuzad remained silent, his empty gaze travelling from the half-elf to the human.
'Now please explain what have you done to the Crusade.' Arthas ordered softly.
Voice of a paladin, the lich thought grimly. This is no dream.
I lost both of my kings.
He sighed. 'I did nothing. Words did. Humans believe too easily.' his expression could not chance, but the others knew well that he grinned. 'I told them I shall betray you, my king, if they keep me alive.'
Arthas raised an eyebrow. 'They fell for it?' he asked in disbelief.
'Indeed, my king. I told them that they will weaken you greatly if they attack the right stronghold.' his ethereal grin widened. 'They believed when I said it was Caer Darrow.'
Arthas nearly fell over laughing, but Barov and his wife caught him in time. Jaina and Finnall gazed at Kel'Thuzad, the ranger's stare blank and the archmage' face wearing a wide and nasty grin.
'Kel, you're a life-saver!' the king managed to say as he began to regain control over himself. 'Either the Crusade or Gandling will get a good beating!'
'There is more, my king.' the lich announced. 'Let us go inside.'
They all entered the haunted inn where they left a set of chairs around one big table after their last strategy meeting. Alexiei unrolled the old map of the Eastern Continents and placed it neatly on the table. Chairs creeked as they all sat - except Kel'Thuzad, who floated by Arthas' side.
'There is still something we can do to weaken Gandling.'
Deep, almost deafening silence followed. Some eyes were fixed upon the speaker, rest trailed various paths on the map. It was indeed very old, the parchment yello, with towns and villages named as years ago. For this piece of parchment time stop when Lordaeron was still there.
Kel'Thuzad's bony finger landed at Darrowmere Lake, right at the center. There, on a small island, stood Caer Darrow. The bone travelled south, through Hillsbrad Foothills, Arathi Highlands (named after the bloodline of the first human king), south to Khaz Modan and further until it reached the accursed Blackrock Mountain.
There it stopped.
'The Cult has been raising a plauged dragonflight.' the lich announced. 'But it was a very new project, still in the phase of experiments. To proceed, the necromancers needed more eggs to produce strong dragons able to breed. And here' he tapped the map 'is where they get the eggs from.'
Jaina's sky-blue eys gazed at him in disbelief. 'From the Black Dragonflight? The Blackrock orcs? How?'
'This is one thing I will not tell you.'
'But that is not what matters.' Illucia cut in softly. 'The thing is, if we stop the caravan from the mountain, we will disable Gandling's "secret" weapon.'
Everyone around her grinned.
The chair flew across the chamber and broke against the opposite wall. Useless pieces of wood fell to the marble floor. The two archamges gulped audiably, their eyes following their leader. He was walking to and fro the chamber, teeth and fists clenched. His eyes burnt with sheer fire.
Dathrohan was furious.
'Fools!' he growled. 'You're mages! How could you not know!'
One of the two men opened his mouth, but closed it as fast. He dared not speak, not now. He'd get torn to pieces.
'How dare they send me illusions! You should have noticed that, fools! We lost the lich and our troops fell at Caer Darrow! Arthas is weakend, yet still wins!'
He slammed a fist against a working desk, which creeked dangerously. The mages could swaer they've seen a light crack on it. Dathrohan shook his head and ran a hand through his brown hair.
'No, it's alright.' he said. 'All's fine.'
Only insane peopel speak like that, first drunk with fury, then all of a sudden and sober. In fact, he was as insane, as inhuman as one can be.
But no one was aware of the reason.
'Forget the lich. Forget the damn head.' he ordered the two frightened mages. 'Send some troops to Tyr's Hand and get them more from Tirisfal. As fast as possible. I will head there soon and we shall have our revenge on Arthas.' he paused, as if catching breath or wanting to grin. But he did neither.
'Blood for blood!'
Terrordale was left deserted shortly after Kel'Thuzad's release. Caravans of Theramore humans and the high elves crossed the Plaguelands slowly with great care. There were meny regiments of the Scarlet Crusade heading east - one false move and they would end up sliced. The caravans marched further and further south, the people silent.
Finally, after six days of eager march, they have crossed the rivers that split continents and entered the dwarven kingdom of Khaz Modan. Right now they were stopped by guards at the very entrance to the underground passage, the deep and splendid tunnels of Dun Algaz.
'Halt!' one of the dwarven guards called. The men and horses paused at once. 'What brings ye here?'
Jaina's steed took a few small steps forward. 'Supplies ordered by the Thorium Brotherhood.' she explained.
'Lady Proudmoore!'
'We were to deliver them to Searing Gorge. I came in person to ensure they reach their destination.'
The dwarves nodded, one by one. They stepped aside, revealing the first of many Dun Algaz tunnels. It was shaped in sheer stone, but decorated with marble - floors, ceiling, walls - which ensured that it will not collapse. Although the people of Khaz Modan are short, the tunnel was huge, high and wide, so that even machines of war could cross.
Jaina smiled and took off forward. Her caravans followed, watched by the guards. One of them narrowed his eyesbrows suspiciously, but just for a brief moment. Jaina called:
'Light be with you, good dwarves!'
'Fare ye well, m'lady!' the other called back.
After they crossed all the tunnels and entered the wintery peaks of Dun Morogh, they surveyed the very heart of Khaz Modan.
There was slight movement on one of the bigger carts.
Arthas peaked from under his cover.
'Can't breathe in here!' he panted in a whisper.
'Hide, fool!' Finnall snapped angrily. 'You want to be seen!'
She pushed him back under the cover, causing muffled 'ouch's from both him and Barov.
They marched for days onward, the Blackrock Mountain still far ahead. Crossing the green plains of Loch Modan and the barren Badlands, they could always see its top, the Blackrock Spire, observing the world with its dark, empty eyes. It was a place of war and bloodshed, veiled in a long, tragical history.
Once a part of the Redridge Mountains, Blackrock was as peaceful and serene. But that tranquility did not last forever. Years ago, when one of the dwarven kings died, three other clans fought for the throne. During that time, known as the War of the Three Hammers, the Dark Iron dwarves, those of black hair and ashen skin, showed their true nature. Unlike their brethren, they fought using dark arts of magic. Fouling the stronghold of Grim Batol, once a fortress of the Wildhammer clan, they were forced to flee south to the mountains, to an underground city of Shadowforge. There the head woman of the Dark Irons released Ragnaros, the elemental of sheer fire, its lord and master - the very same the Titans chained beneathed the earth when they shaped the world. An epic battle between the Dark Irons and the united Wildhammers and Bronzebeards took place. The shadowy clan was defeated and forced to remain hidden underground. Ragnaros survived, and still dwells deep in the very molten core of the mountain.
But that was not the end of touble there. During the Second War orcs of the Blackrock Clan, after which the mountain was named, were pushed back to Redridge and settled at its highest peak. They built the city of Hordemar and also their greatest stronghold - the Blackrock Spire. Atop the Spire dwells their master, the black dragon Nefarian Blackwing, rumoured to be an offspring of Deathwing himself. Once during the Second War, before Blackwing's existance wa revealed, forces of the Grand Alliance came to put an end to the old Horde. Ambushed, they managed to survive, but sire Anduin Lothar, regent lord of Stormwind, fell in a duel with Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer. His statue still stands south of the mountain, its marble sword pointing to the very Spire. The Blackrock orcs remained there.
And never liked the dwarves. Emeror Dagran Thaurissan leads the Dark Irons on behalf of Ragnaros, and Warchief Rend Blackhand commands his orcs in the name of Blackwing. Top fights the bottom, warlocks fight warlocks, dragons fight fire. Peace was never meant to last on Blackrock Mountain.
And now the caravans from the north reached an area known as Searing Gorge, a barren, grey land north of the mountain. The air was heavy, full of dust, ash and smoke, for the dwarves ad their elemental allies did much of their blacksmithing and engineering work out here.
Their path led further south, through the Gorge and into the mountain. As always it was empty and sinisterly silent. And hot, for it was filled with molten lava, stones forming but a thin ring around the hellish pool. Above it, chained to the stone pathway, was a floating rock, tomb of one of the Dark Iron kings.
As the caravan reached the mountain, the Blackrock orcs were leaving the Spire, escorting carts of giant grey eggs. Ambushed by the northern visitors, they fought valiantly as orcs do, but had no particular chance. Most of them were quickly pushed down into the lava with the carts, their screams of agony muffled and short, while the rest was being sliced by the two mighty runeblades and dozins of sharp swords. The stone pathway turned crimson.
'No more eggs for Gandling this time.' Arthas spat.
Behind him, Finnall grinned sinisterly.
'And it's the end of one more thing.' she announced.
Within a second, with surprising agility, she grabbed the undead king from behind, one of his hands pulled behind his back, Finnall's redden sword by his throat.
'Finnall!' Jaina cried. 'I beg you, sister-'
'Not a word!' the half-elf snapped. Arthas felt himsefl sweating. All the eyes were now upon him, the Barovs no less terrified. But if they moved, he would choke on his own blood.
'Blood for blood, Arthas!'
End of ch. II.