Chapter 15: Once More unto the Breach
Lordaeron Coast, 2 days after Expedition Landing
The Expedition had recently landed upon the sandy beaches of eastern Lordaeron. He and the Brotherhood of Light's Clerics had traveled farther inland, toward the more ethereal energies that supposedly consumed this land. They would prove useful cover against the magics from the infinite well of power from the Waters of Eternity.
"Now that we are away from the infirmities and restrictions of camp gentlemen, let us now prepare for the final ritual" Alaric spoke, eyes fixated on the Vials of Illidan which contained the luminescent Waters of Eternity.
This world had too long been drowned in the fires of war, and now, with these Waters, they would quench that fire, and bring peace back to their once glorious civilizations. It was time now. They had dragged the Waters from Kalimdor, from the very summit of Mt. Hyjal, to this desolate area. Here, they would unleash, and tame the powers that were trapped inside the magical laced vials.
Alaric and the Clerics slowly uncorked the vials, pouring their contents into a huge central goblet within their ritual circle. Inside the golden and glowing cauldron, lay the bubbling and bluish-purple tinged Waters.
"Now that we have caught you, you shall be tamed by the Blood Elves! And with your power, we shall wipe all resistance off the face of this earth!" Alaric thought silently. "Brothers, let us commence!" he said, drawing the necessary magical runes in the sand. The others did so as well.
When the runes were drawn, each Cleric blessed the rune with the Light, and each one began to glow, and rise above the sand to encompass the goblet filled with the inevitable depths of power.
The ritual words were then chanted. Over and over they commanded the Seals of Power, or the runes, towards the Waters. With the Seals of Power's success, they might be able to trap the power of the primordial Waters and place it within their grasp to control. But the control was harder to get to than Alaric had ever anticipated.
He knew the Water's power. He knew it would not be easy, but he had not expected this. All of a sudden, a blast of light appeared, and cascaded around the countryside, pushing him and the other Clerics back several meters. The blast of energy shattered the golden goblet, and killed several of the Clerics.
Getting up slowly, Alaric's body seared with pain. As he looked across the now charred landscape, he could not help but notice that the Waters did not touch the ground. Instead, in a giant ball resembling the shape of the goblet, they floated.
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They had once again retrieved the Waters in the Vials of Illidan and made it back to camp, their numbers fewer, and members greatly disheartened. Alaric himself was the most demoralized.
"How? We have come all this way for nothing? Have we not followed the ancient scripts of how to control such powers as these?" he asked himself over and over as he stumbled back into his cot. "What does this mean? Shall there be no war after all? Shall we just disappear under the heel of the Litch King?"
In his cot there, the thoughts swirled in his head. He slept not that night.
Cold, and completely deprived of spirit, he walked out of his tent several hours later seeking solace from the rest of the camp. In the knee deep grass he continued to walk, ceremonial robe still on. With an anger filling him, he called out "Where are you Prophet? Who told me that these Waters were the answer! How can I use them if I can't control them?" for a minute, his voice echoed over the plains.
Almost immediately a small ripple in the air to the fore of him occurred. In its wake was a gaping hole of light, and from that light walked forth an old hunched over figure.
"Greetings once more Alaric'Quel. I sense you come with tidings of ill?"
"Yes" Alaric replied slowly "I know you. You are the prophet. The one who told me my people's salvation was within those accursed Waters! Damn you old man! Those Waters have brought us nothing but death, and you spoke of salvation!" voice increasing with anger.
The prophet turned his gaze from Alaric and to the silver moon. "Yes. I told you it was your salvation. But I did not tell you how to control it. You can only contain it, slow it down"
"Then how old man?" Alaric said, voice dropping "How can I control this power? What sacrifice must I make in order for these people to be brought to the harbor of safety and the utter vengeance in their hearts lusted?"
"You know of when we first met, yes?" the old prophet, Kelen the Light-Seeker, spoke. Alaric nodded. "I told you that this would be a great war. When you retrieved the remnants of the Well of Eternity, there would be waged a crusade of the Light. Well, let me tell you now. I too, underestimated the resilience of the Waters. But there is one power great enough on this world to control them. One source of magic that holds the knowledge to wield them"
"What is this thing, oh prophet!" Alaric cried out.
"The Book of Medivh!" the prophet finally said. He let the words settle, the moment take shape.
"But that Book has been lost since the Third War!" Alaric rebuked.
"Yes, but I have found it! Form your armies! March them north, to the Tirisfal Glades, and there under the arm of the Litch Kel'thuzad you shall find the Book of Medivh, and the spells to wield the power of the Waters of Eternity!" and with those words, the prophet phased out of existence in a brief burst of light.
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It had been weeks since that time. The Battle of Stromguard had occurred, and the Blood Elf Alaric'Quel had traveled across the continents of Azeroth and Lordaeron rallying the armies of the Alliance in accordance to the prophet's orders. Soon, the great offencive, one the likes of which had not been seen since the end of the Second War against the Orcs would begin…
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Thoradin's Wall, Southern Lordaeron, March 1st, 1st Year of the Age of Reclamation 1 months after Expedition Landing (the New Age)
Across the continent, men were rallying under the banners of the Alliance, creating a strength it had not seen since before the Third War. The confidence once vested in it was returning, and even the wayward nations such as Gilneas saw that it was time to back this war with all they had.
There on either sides of the ancient Arathi ruins named Thoradin's Wall lay the army of the Second Alliance. The old core remnants of the 1st Army, the 3rd, and 5th armies had merged here. Already with over 65,000 men, more kept streaming in daily to replenish the long emptied ranks.
Finally, after weeks of preparation the army was ready for the advance. By orders of the Lord-Marshal Alaric'Quel himself, all armies would drive forward on March 1st, and eventually meet at their goal; the bastion of Undead power on the continent known as the Undercity for the people of the Alliance saw no difference in the Scourge, and the Forsaken for both were an enemy, and both were unholy Undead.
Genn Blackswift had participated in the journey to Kalimdor alongside the warriors of the grand Expedition. He had been the scout that had saved the entire Expedition by warning them that the Orcish armies were closer than Captain Eolas had though. And after the Battle of the Arathi Highlands, he had been promoted to a Battalion Commander in the former 3rd army now known as the 3rd Corps of the Army of the Durnhold.
The Durnhold was an old castle fortification that once had been an Orc internment camp. And now, the ever growing army was named after it in memory of a greater time.
Flags and banners carrying the standards of the old Alliance; the L with a sword piercing it, and the flags of the nations in the new Alliance fluttered slightly. Around him, were the men of this new, untested, and strong army.
The variety of soldiers in the army was amazing. They ranged from farmers with naught but pitchforks to the battle worn armor of the average footman, to the gleaming mail of the noble knights.
As he heard the trumpets call for advance of the 3rd Corps, he shouted out "Battalion! Forward MARCH!" And so the clinking of metal began as his column moved forward.
And so the leading knife's edge of the Army of the Durnhold was on the move. Soon, the rest would be breaking camp to follow. Likewise around southern Lordaeron, the armies of the Alliance started moving north, some slower or faster than others. Genn though quietly to himself while watching over his moving column, "This marks the day when we stamp those unholy beasts out of our realm forever!"
But the martial might of the Alliance could never meet that of the Scourge, for the Scourge itself had too many numbers on its side. This advance would be but a feint, a ruse arousing the Litch King into a war of maneuvering and trickery. All it was, was a way for Alaric to slowly swing in from behind, and take the Book of Medivh from the Litch Kel'thuzad…
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Tirisfal Glades, March 4th
Kel'thuzad looked out upon the dead glades of Tirisfal with whatever his face could summon for a twisted smirk. He could see through the eyes of countless of his minions. And what he saw pleased him. The living forces of Azeroth were regrouping; coming back to war. He would enjoy toying with them before the end.
Once upon a time, Kel'thuzad had been an esteemed wizard of Dalaran. He had even been offered a seat on the High Council of the city, but declined. He was considered by many students and elder wizards to be a genius, but by that time in his life, he had first dabbled with the dark majiks. Then, the one fateful day arrived when he heard the telepathic call of the Litch King. In those days the Litch King was imprisoned in his icy coffin on top of the Frozen Throne.
Kel'thuzad had heeded the call, left upon a Lorderanian sloop to the frozen lands of the continent of Northrend. There, he searched for months for the place of this immense and irresistible call. When he finally looked upon the glaciers and the one tall spire of ice he knew then of the thing he had searched for all his life. The Litch King offered him eternal life after his death should he ever die in his employ, and Kel'thuzad gladly accepted. From then on in, he was the Litch King's first true necromancer in the lands of Lordaeron. He set in motion the betrayal and death of the soul of Arthas, and the wars to come. When he had died at the hands of the still human Arthas, the Litch King resurrected him as an even more powerful Litch.
And now, he was rewarded with an undying life, and was ordered by the Litch King, once Arthas and Ner'zul, to hold dominion over the now undead kingdom of Lordaeron. Finally, after two years of sniveling in the dark places of the world, the races of the free people of the Eastern Kingdoms had shown their faces. Earlier that day, he had contacted the Litch King through the telepathic bond he held to all creatures of the Scourge and told him of the events transpiring. Of course the Litch King had already known, but gave instructions to Kel'thuzad to stamp out all resistance and move south immediately with the fresh new troops they would receive upon the obliteration of these pathetic armies.
Kel'thuzad turned from the bleak glades to face a necromancer. His face pale, eyes hollow, and orange robes splattered with dried blood, the necromancer looked much like the many others of his kind. Though this one had come bearing a message.
"Kel'thuzad, the forces of the Alliance approach Tarren Mill. Many Necropolises draw their energy from that area, and the spirit energy of the Necropolises are the only thing keeping many of the Undead there energized with undeath for they were not original victims to the plague, but ones raised from the dead in haste for battle" the nameless necromancer reported.
Kel'thuzad replied, the inside of his undead skull spewing forth blue flame "I am well aware of the situation in Tarren Mill. We are to let the rabble come forward and fight us. Shall they win, they will move on and fight us again and again; each time weakening. Let them come. In the end they shall find the finality of all things; death"
With those words, the necromancer also nodded with his own twisted smirk, and passed away into the grim dusty wind.
"Let them come. Let them fight the might of the Scourge, for I shall make sure that the leader of these armies endures eternal pain" Kel'thuzad once again talked to himself. In his bony arm, he clutched a brown collection of parchment; the Book of Medivh, the key to using the most awesome power in the world; the Waters of Eternity.
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Tarren Mill, Lordaeron, March 4th
"Forward! For your countries, for your families, for your children, and for the Alliance!" Alaric screamed out as wave after wave of Undead battered their way into his lines. Again and again they had come, blooding the front line troops.
The bleak sun was setting now, casting a strange red hue in the sky. In the distance Alaric could make out the silhouettes of the Undead necropolises, sprouting forth their vile energies. The day had been spent much like this. Pushing forward, slowly but surely over the bodies of their own dead. Finally, the Army of the Durnhold had come upon the ruined village of Tarren Mill.
At about noon, the first troops had rolled into Tarren Mill. It was quiet, considering the amount of dead there had been before their final advance into the town. The first battalions in the city though, were doomed before they even knew what hit them. It happened that thousands of undead archers and spell casters lay hidden in the stone and wood ruins. All of a sudden, with frightening efficiency the battalions were cut down. Almost none survived the onslaught of arrows and flying energy balls.
Alaric along with Dethal and the other commanders then ordered mortar teams to blast many of the half recognizable ruins, turning them into smoking rubble. The army then advanced into the city, and had encountered stiff resistance. Here they had been stuck all day in a stalemate with the Undead forces that continued to pour out of their dark energy portals and such. Not to far back several villages were secured, and in thus doing so gave a fresh supply line for the Army of the Durnhold. And so the carnage had not stopped all day.
Alaric stood with his men at the frontline. Hundreds of footmen and other ragged soldiers stood to the sides of him. The army was spread out all across the city, trying to pry their way deeper in to reach the necropolises. Yet every time they attacked, they were repulsed, and the same went for the Scourge forces.
Many of his soldiers were wounded, carrying deep cuts and bandages wrapped around arms, legs, torso, or the head. But their wounds did not end their vigor and hopes of conquest. They were on a crusade, to retake what was once theirs after all! Many a Lorderanian refugee had joined the cause, to fight alongside Stromguardian, Azeroth, Gilneas, Dwarven, and Elven troops.
But now Alaric looked out upon the ruins of the city with uncertainty. A huge wave of Undead, the largest yet was massing in the near distance; marching towards them. In the gleaming last remnants of the sun, Alaric could see their ranks, could hear the rhythmical thumping of footsteps, and could smell the taste of death in the air. To his right, Dethal cried out his name running up to him.
"Alaric! I have brought you these soldiers. I know that you only have eight hundred or so under your control, and your position now is the one under the most pressure. Many have been slain here, but we must hold on!" Dethal said pointing to a contingent of what looked to be a mix of royal Kul-Tiras Marines, and a group of farmers in rags boasting pitchforks and rusty shovels as weapons.
"How many?" Alaric asked voice raspy after a day of shouting.
"Nearly five hundred sire. I will return with what I can muster as soon as possible. May the Light be with you!" he said running off.
Alaric nodded, and silently returned the prayer. Now, it was time to settle this battle once and for all, for if they one this skirmish, than they could have the momentum to push forward to the Undead spirit centers.
Slowly, the Undead inched closer and closer. Alaric counted the seconds, waiting for a precise moment. NOW!
"KILL THEM ALL!" he cried out at the top of his lungs, and lunged forward, nearly tripping over blocks of rubble. Behind him, the nine hundred followed a battle to the death. With war cries and shouts of vulgar promise to destroy the Scourge, the group ran forward. Now also, the Scourge had begun to run, pikes and other salvaged weapons sticking straight forward.
For this moment, however loud it was, it seemed like absolute quite to Alaric. He saw only the glints of light on armor, the fading light of the red sun. The smoke rising in the distance, and the monsters right in front of him. He held his sword down, said the words of magic, and conjured a pillar of flame.
Alaric, sword unsheathed, ran with his battalions straight into the heart of the enemy line. Many were cut down by the debris flung at them by the meat wagons and skeleton archers, while many more were impaled on the sharp ends of the pikes.
A pitched battle raged around him. Footman fought ghoul, dwarven riflemen pumping abominations full of lead, priests and sorceresses unleashing spells upon the flying creatures of the Scourge, while knights unsuccessfully tried to flank the enemy in the rear.
Cutting swathes through a few ghouls, Alaric smiled. That was until he heard the dying screams of a footman to his right. A nerubian sentient had unleashed its spiderlings which burrowed through the man's armor and ate him from the inside out. In fury, Alaric charged the nerubian and drove his rune blade deep into the spider's innards which sprayed green blood all over Alaric's newly polished armor.
Behind him another nerubian appeared, but instead of releasing its young to feast on his flesh, it crouched down, and jumped an astonishing ten feet and landed straight on top of Alaric. Barely holding the beast back, Alaric rolled to the side, raised his blade, and hacked continually at the nerubian's black-grey hide until it lay in a pile of its own pulp.
To his left, a rather large abomination squashed a rather wounded and helpless wounded footman with its reanimated fleshy foot, and threw its arm in a wide circle throwing another half dozen backwards surely breaking their ribs. One astute dwarven rifleman slowly inched towards the raging abomination, primed a musket ball, and fired. The ball penetrated deep into the abominations half decayed brain, driving the creature near insanity. It spotted the sharp shooting dwarf, picked him up before he could escape, and smashed his skull into the ground.
The fight was not going well Alaric realized. Many of his men were being slaughtered, and quicker than he had anticipated. Then, from somewhere around him he heard the familiar stomping of hooves, and the battle cries of the Order of the Horse, one of the Azerothian Knight clans.
As quickly as he had heard the war cries, a wave of noble knights in the shining silver chain and plate mail with the blue and gold capes of Azeroth plowed through the Undead, trampling many ghouls. Reinvigorated, the troops under Alaric's command stopped fighting defensively and released the pinned up rage of three years of massacre. In mere minutes, the Undead force that had once stood so high and mightily before the forces of Light were all but 'dead' corpses once more.
Peering around at the sight of the battle, Alaric spotted the leader of the knights that had come to their rescue. Looking up at the tall and noble man on the horse, he shouted out "Duke Winfield, a moment of your time!"
"Ah yes, Alaric'Quel, our brave leader in this campaign. I just thought I would drop by and lend a hand" he said with a smile, the smile of youth.
"Yes" Alaric replied dryly "Now that we have broken the center of the Scourge's resistance, we must now move quickly and bombard those necropolises before the enemy can regroup!"
Winfield nodded quickly, swung back onto his horse and was off to get the siege tanks and mortar teams, a plume of dust rising behind his horse.
But now that they had gained momentum, Alaric could not allow it to disappear. He raised his sword again, and the remaining soldiers charged forwards toward the Undead spirit collection centers. As he ran, he noticed that the ground was slowly changing from the mud and rubble to a deathly grey-black tinge; the Blight.
Panting at the full speed of the run, Alaric swung his head around quickly to see that the other wings of the army were still not moving forward, were still locked in a stalemate. 'So we shall have no back up this time' he thought.
Approaching the Scourge's colony where the creation of all their beasts and the reanimation of corpses was done, Alaric spotted more enemies; ghouls cutting wood, necromancers commanding them, nerubians gathering their eggs for hatching, and many a gargoyle, watching from afar in the sky. Gargoyles were the Litch King's creating, a twisted version of the sculptures men used to create in northern Lordaeron during one of the darker eras in its history a few centuries ago. The gargoyles would be a problem; Alaric had nothing but a few riflemen whose weapons were nearly depleted of ammunition to fire at the terrors in the sky.
He held up his hand, an order for the men to stop. He passed the word to quickly and quietly hide in the bushes surrounding the necropolis centers. 'We will wait until the mortar teams arrive' he replied to those who asked him why they had stopped.
Shuffling in the thorny bush he had foolishly chosen, he slipped his armor plate off his face and swung it back up on top of his elven steel helmet. Sitting in this one area, he uncomfortably felt his sweat completely soak every last vestige of dry cloth under the armor, courtesy of the last small battle that had occurred. Impatient, he also wringed his hands over and over in the agony of waiting for the Duke and his mortar teams. The Knights the Duke had brought were a ways back behind; their horses might start neighing at an unfortunate time and give them away, and also that the Knight's could not hide the horses in these damned bushes.
The sun had set now, only a dim glimmer of light still clung to the orange going on dark blue sky. To the east he saw a large silver disk, the moon, rising to take the place of the banished sun. 'It will provide us with sufficient light' he said in a whisper to those around him who filled with fear of fighting in the pitch dark.
What seemed like hours had finally passed and when Alaric was just about to call the attack off, the Duke arrived on his horse alone.
"Lord Marshal! I have a contingent of mortar teams coming up this way from the south and they should be here shortly. Though we are more than a little stretched thin on rifles and archers, I think what we have here will suffice" the Duke whispered to Alaric, after he found him rummaging through the sea of crouched men.
"Excellent. Let us put their special talents to work" Alaric replied, a new battle lust setting in his voice. As the mortar teams covertly placed themselves, the men hiding in the brush and deadened forest prepared to lift up and assault the strongly guarded necropolises. Perhaps the Undead did not know that their lines had been so badly broken and that they were susceptible to attack. But that worked to their advantage, and the forces of the Alliance were about to give this spirit center a rude wake up call.
"Fire!" the cry echoed across the line. It was shortly followed by the high pitched sound of the gunpowder filled iron casings that were flung into the air by the ingenious Dwarfs. Nearly five hundred yards away the shells arced and impacted creating brilliant explosions of light that filled the night sky. Though most of the rounds missed, the ones that hit created severe damage on the ability for the Undead buildings to process whatever it was they were once doing. And the bombardment continued for minutes that seemed like hours.
The men then stood, and to the sound of the trumpet charged forward, armor and weapons clinking creating an awful sound in the night. Suddenly aware that their entire chain of command was threatened the Undead creatures, whether they were collecting resources or just idly sitting around arose and as beasts they were without the command of a Death Knight, Crypt Lord, Nathrazim, Litch, or sufficient numbers of necromancers, attacked with no coordination whatsoever.
This time it seemed that the Undead were surrounded. The attack here, if successful would destabilize the whole area, throwing the Undead back at the front line into disarray. The quickness of the chaos that would ensue would not allow even the Litch King to gain full control over his minions.
And so that was why Tarren Mill had to fall now, and in a speedy fashion.
The few Undead left to guard the rear bases were easily overcome and slaughtered. Within minutes, footmen had set fire to the damned necropolises, and the mortar teams were able, now closer and with better accuracy, blast through the harder shells of the spirit collection buildings.
Alaric laughed almost evilly now, thought of the absolute confusion the Litch King would be feeling right now "That's right you bastard, Arthas! Feel what it is like to lose something precious!"
And so the destabilization of the entire Undead force began. Suddenly without a connection to the Litch King's consciousness, the Undead beasts fell upon themselves, allowing for a breakthrough. The carnage and massacre continued thought the night, and by morning, the new and old Alliance banners had been raised fluttering softly in the morning breeze.
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Tarren Mill, Lordaeron, March 5th
The assessment of the battle had just begun to leak into his de facto command post, which happened to be nothing more than a large tent put up over a patch of grass in the pile of rubble that used to be the town square and forum.
The casualties had been high, but not as large as Alaric had initially thought. "A thousand men dead…with more than three thousand wounded" he read on a piece of parchment, wetted and smeared by the early morning shower.
His heart ached for every man dead or wounded, had so for everyone he had seen die since the First War, but it had to be done. They were so close to ultimate victory. They had the Waters, soon they would have the Book, and they had already reclaimed many lands in Lordaeron for the Alliance.
Now that this Undead army was gone forever from the face of Azeroth, they could continue onwards. The other armies would stage diversions, absorbing the attention of the Scourge's underlings while Alaric and his forces would slip deep into the Plaugelands and steal away the Book of Medivh from the accursed traitor to the Light, Kel'thuzad.
And also finally for the first time in many days reports from the other armies across the continent had arrived. Progress was going well for all except for one, under the command of the as ever unlucky Anduin Praeton that was encountering extremely stiff resistance near the base of the Altrac Mountain Range.
As the day passed, and the orders had been issued to move out the next morning, the commanders had left Alaric to his own self. Staring up at the dirty stretched and torn cloth that was the in essence the central command of all forces of the Alliance on both the continents of Azeroth and Lordaeron, Alaric'Quel of Silvermoon could see a single pinprick of light seeping through a hole in his tent. He found himself reflecting on that sunset, which had a very symbolic nature to it. Perhaps this was an image of the many wins to come, or of a hollow victory, and new enemies from within. Perhaps it truly was the end of an age, or perhaps it was the end of the Scourge… "Only time will tell" Alaric said, slowly getting up, and pulling his wooden chair over to a table that held the map of Northrend. The War of the Ruins had just escalated.
Bonus Profile: Alaric'Quel's Rune Blade
It has been a magical weapon wielded by many, and of late, Alaric Faltron'Quel of Silvermoon. The blade itself was created many millennia ago, by a long forgotten mage who also sported the skill of metallurgy. The blade was christened with many powers, such as an aura that increased the strength and resolve of its master.
It also included a magic that when unlocked created a beam of light that washed over entire battlefields, and extinguished all life within its range. But that and many others of its abilities were forgotten over the long centuries since its creating.
The blade also seemed to tap into the consciousness of its wielder and created the illusion that the blade was nearly an extension of the arm. The different metals of the blade have never been found naturally, so it is believe that they were created from pure magic, or were at least laced deeply with it. These metals help create an amazingly light blade, an easy to grip hilt, and an incredible strength that rivals that of even the infamous Frostmourne blade wielded by Arthas, supposed King of Lordaeron.
Who the creator was, nobody could ever tell. All that was remembered of him was the strange runes that he carved into the hilt and extension of the sword. In the hundreds of years since its creation, it fell into the hands of one of the Sunstrider Dynasty. It was then passed on as an heirloom to the Quel family, and was eventually received by Alaric after his father died at the hands of a Troll ambush nearly four hundred years before the War of the Ruins.
Whatever history, dark or light, that the sword has is carried with it forever, and sometimes allows the wielder glimpses into the past. But for now, the history of the sword is irrelevant. What is more important is that the sword is a powerful ally and tool indeed, and will be needed in the harsh trials that Azeroth will soon endure…
(Well, hoped you guys enjoyed that chapter there. As always I am begging for some reviews here. C'mon guys, give me reviews! I need to know how I am doing! Well, other than that, thanks for those of you who do review, and the next chapter should be out shortly being as it is not as long as this one and is already underway. Until next time…May the Light be with you!)