Chapter 19: The Betrayer Within

Stormwind Keep, Kingdom of Stormwind, May 11th

The time had come. The forces of the Grand Alliance had pushed back the undead at the Arathi Highlands, securing safety for the last bastions of might in Stromgarde, or at least for the time being.

He had just signed another permit for the regional lords to recruit more footmen for the war effort, their last reserves sent to the northern battlefields a month ago. The Kul-Tiras Navy had carefully made its way around the west of Lordaeron, encountering not one, but two major undead armadas.

Such armadas were created from salvaged, stolen, or abandoned ships filled with undead minions and controlled by mostly the malicious Death Knights that the Litch King employed. "They used to be our knights…our paladins…" Varian Wrynn silently reminded himself. Such were the pains of war.

So many paladins and knights in shining armor that had ridden forth without the bidding of the Stormwind military had been so utterly transformed by the Litch King's magics. And the number in Lordaeron, especially the northern and more populated territories had such been true. But now it was time.

The last courier that had made it from gryphon back, his own Appolinax, a gift from the Dwarves of Aerie Peak, had brought back news of crushing victories in Quel'thalas. Through torrents of blood the Alliance forces spearheaded by the steadfast Stromgardians and valiant Stormwinders had retaken nearly the entire lost peninsula.

Varian looked to the top of the throne room, the gigantic stone chamber whose walls were draped in the blue and gold cloth tapestry. Within the blue linen was embedded the golden lion crest, the symbol of Stormwind. And next to that symbol was that of the Alliance, the distinctive L with three daggers piercing it.

Varian knew that his 'Second' Alliance was just a way to hold back the seemingly inevitable. Using persuasive powers he had convinced Stromgarde and Gilneas to sign the articles. He was pulling together a loose coalition to fight against the even glacier-like advance of the undead Scourge.

The Second Alliance was just infact the first one revitalized and with a stronger executive power, which allowed for an easier commanding of the war issues. No doubt Thoras Trollbane and Genn Greymane would try and take control of that executive power, yet for the time being they had to sit fuming under the control of the 'damnable' Stormwinders which was the only human kingdom left literally untouched by the Third War.

Stormwind and Khaz Modan, meaning King Wyrnn and King Bronzebeard were now the true upholders of the responsibility that came with upholding the leadership of the Alliance. Without them, it would crumble and there would be little to stop the Horde and Scourge.

Yet for all the fighting in the north, there was war upon his land as well. While the Third War raged across Lordaeron, the combined powers of the renegade Blackrock and Dragonmaw Orc clans resurfaced, and laid siege to his eastern realm, mainly around Lakeshire. In the south at Duskwood, a dark curse came down upon the land, and mad undead beasts began to roam the forests, and to the south west the usually rich and prosperous fields of Westfall and Moonbrook had fallen into a fallow depression, and were overrun by gnolls and other beasts.

With Stormwind already in heavy debt to the northern kingdoms since they had sapped the treasuries of many Alliance nations in their rebuilding, not much could be done, even to send help to Lordaeron in its time of need.

"May our action now help those who gave us harbor in our darkest hours" Varian thought, thinking of his own service as a Knight in the Second War. He had ridden forth in the King Llane's name and service, fighting in engagements ranging from the Battle of Moonbrook in the First War to the last battles around Blackrock Spire in the employment of the Order of the Horse, which later became the Order of the Silver Hand; the Paladins of Lordaeron.

Now that Stromgarde's fate was secure for the moment and the Scourge was temporarily thrown off balance it was time to strike a blow from which the Litch King could never regain from; a land invasion of Northrend, deep into the heart of the undead Scourge.

"We shall cut out the heart of the beast" he whispered under his breath, staring past the grand walls of the Keep.

Seventy thousand was the number. A massive force; the approximate size of the 1st Army when they had departed on their journey to reclaim the northlands; a mission which had only been partly successful, with Kel'thuzad thought dead and Quel'thalas retaken - yet not the old Capitol. The 1st Army had been restocked, yet another force was on its way to meet them.

During the only the peak of the Second War had such armies like these been seen, usually those of the Orcs earlier on, before Gul'dan's betrayal; an act of treachery that had saved the Alliance.

Supplies and troops were being moved through the Arathi Highlands with the stunning efficiency of Thoras Trollbane and the Tandred Proudmoore, King and Admiral of Kul-Tiras' and her Navy, not to mention the ever cooperative Dwarves and their amazing Deeprun Tram invention.

Columns, regiments, and brigades were being scraped up from everywhere they could be found; though the few Blood Elves that did not follow the Lord General 'Quel were seemingly uncooperative and insisted on fighting still, or returning a'la mecca to Silvermoon. The wizards of the Argent Dawn, a former wizard's guild of the Kirin Tor, had also pledged their support in the invasion. The 3rd Alliance Army, led by General Marcus, had been recalled from the battles around Dalaran had already been picked up by the Kul-Tiras armada.

Four Kul-Tiras fleets, all fused into a singe mighty armada, and nearly all of the merchant Kingdom's sea power, had been put to sea, and were if going according to plan, should be near the Quel'thalas salient. Soon, those seventy thousand would depart for Northrend, and would be the first Alliance army to set foot on the frozen continent since before Arthas' utter betrayal and corruption. No, nothing could stop destiny now; it was all going according to the plan laid out by him, the Lord General, and the other leaders of the Alliance.

"My liege! My king!" a voice cried out. Varian turned to see Bishop Benedicus, second in the Church only to the sickly Bolon Faol, who would most likely die soon, running up to the Throne room via the long corridor that led up to it. As he swept past, the guards turned their heads in wonder at the golden and silver robed figure.

"Benedicus? What is the meaning of this?" Varian let out.

"News from the front milord. Bad news" the Bishop said, eyes turning towards the floor.

Ruins of Tharenwind Harbor, Quel'thalas, May 20th

The Book of Medivh had been captured. In the end, they had won. Quel'thalas had been retaken, if only for the moment along with half of eastern Lordaeron where more troops were pushing up from the Arathi Highlands and Southshore.

Still through, the only breakthrough other than his had been General Praeton's, and he had been assumed dead after the quick contact with the huge Night Elf force that had suddenly flanked the 1st Alliance and the Scourge.

Now, this was the time for all the fruition of his plans. He had traveled half the breadth of Kalimdor, crisscrossed Lordaeron and Quel'thalas. They had fought Night Elves, undead, creeps and critters, even the humans, elves, and dwarves of Theramore. For all this they gained this exact moment.

Soon it would be over…soon…

With the Book of Medivh to act as his siphoning and focus and source of control he and the other Clerics would direct the power of the Waters to tear the very fabric of reality around the Icecrown Glacier to pieces, throwing the Litch King into the Twisting Nether to be tormented by the demons there for all eternity.

And if this plan, which he had not shared with the rest of Alliance High Command did not work, they would embark on this fools mission into Northrend and he would destroy the Litch King with his own hands.

As for now, the limited powers of himself and the Brotherhood could not control such immense energy at so far a distance. The job would have to be done on the shores of Northrend. And so the 1st Army once again moved, this time west towards the ruins of Tharenwind Harbor.

Here the Kul-Tiras and Stormwind Navies had come together and prepared to carry the Army across the Northern Seas. To the south, the Scourge had regrouped and was sallying forth from the ruins of Stratholme under the command of an array of litches and death knights.

Their numbers were great, bolstered from the dead fallen on the battlefields to the south. In the south the war had turned against them. All the gains made by the assumed dead Lord General Praeton had been lost, and a meager Alliance force was now trapped around Dalaran. Gilneas had lost nearly all of its standing army in Silverpine Forest (as it had only sent the one into battle) and had retreated back to their Greymane Wall, and in the far eastern theater the Alliance had lost control of Tarren Mill to the Forsaken, another arm of the undead, who were mysteriously pouring forth from the ruins of Lordaeron.

If something was to be done, it would have to be done soon. The supply line to Stromgarde had been almost completely cut off by the advancing dead ranks from Andorhal.

As a result of having to protect the southern borders of Quel'thalas, Alaric had been forced to sacrifice most of the Brotherhood and a quarter of his troops to hold the Scourge in place while the Navy arrived.

Once Alaric had returned, he also expected the support of a great deal of the High Elves living in the human lands, yet had met with little help from them at all. He and his Blood Elves, and the men of the 1st Alliance Army with whatever support the old Varian Wrynn could send would have to suffice for now.

The invasion of Northrend would be bloody, and Alaric doubted that he and his already battered army could withstand another prolonged assault campaign. Especially with that maddened Night Elf still on their tail. Last he had been heard of was two weeks ago just before the battle for Silvermoon. He and his massive force were wandering around the old fired out skeletons of villages somewhere in the Eastern Plaugelands.

He turned to see Dethal riding on his war mount towards him. He was quickly trailed by the Duke of Goldshire, Tal Winfield. During the campaign the two had become steadfast friends, sticking by each others sides even during combat unless duty pulled them some other place.

"Lord Alaric, the first battalions have boarded, with the rest well underway. Equipment has ample space as well, so it looks like we can be bringing along our siege tanks and catapults" Dethal spoke out as he neared.

"Good…any news on reinforcements?" Alaric said, riding over a tall ridge to see the army and navy coming together, his mount neighing, clearly annoyed at the lack of even paltry grass to eat.

"Yes sir, King Wrynn sends his compliments and his own Lord General Jonathan Marcus along with the 3rd Army recalled from the Redridge Mountains where they have been fighting orcs from Blackrock Spire-" although, Dethal never finished.

In the distance a great wall of smoke rose from the direction of a group of tents under the banner of the Brotherhood of Light's Clerics.

"By the decree of Lord High General 'Quel, this portion of the camp is closed to all but the those who carry the badge of the Brotherhood!" Genn bellowed out.

The dark robed figures continued to move towards him and his pitifully sized regiment.

"I say, in the name of the King's Will, halt!" he again yelled out to the advancing column of black clad figures.

Genn threw his hand out in the air in a gesture to stop, but the tall silhouettes did not again heed his call.

"You are under arrest" he then said, now in a more firm and angry tone. He quickly gathered his men from their resting positions and told them to restrain the sudden intrusion.

He and his regiment had been acting rear and guard duty ever since the end of the fighting near the Lar'ladun Forest. He himself had nearly died in that action, his skull fractured by a piece of shrapnel from a meat wagon that was filled with the sharp metallic remains of men's armor. After the battle, he had immediately been healed by a priest, of whom he never had the time to thank.

As he stepped closer to the lead figure, he felt a strange aura around them…something very dark. One of his men suddenly seized the hands of the leading stranger, to his own regret.

The outside of the gauntlets of the stranger turned to molten lava and badly burned the footman's hands. Screaming, the footman did not notice as the dark clad stranger pointed a finger at him, with a small zap of energy that immediately melted off the skin of the hapless footman. With the footman's entrails and remains pouring out of his armor, Genn nearly vomited in disgust. He was not alone as he heard several behind him gag.

Genn backed away, and carefully drew his sword pointed straight to the leading stranger, who never took his eyes off the dirt path.

"You are to halt NOW!" Genn screamed out, fearing to get too close to the dark robed men.

A sudden blast of wind blew him back, knocking him into his own men. The lead figure's head turned in his direction. Genn, in absolute horror, saw an extremely familiar face. "None but the Litch King command me". The thing's eyes washed over with a glowing red, that almost immediately subsided. And with that said statement, he let loose a pillar of flame on the tents behind him.

The familiar cast a spell of numbness upon Genn and his regiment. Unable to move or speak, nothing could be done to warn the others.

Alaric looked on in horror as the Brotherhood's portion of the camp burned in flame. There was where the Waters of Eternity were being stored! He rushed his steed over the grassless, dead ground towards them. The Brotherhood's portion of the camp had been separated from the rest of the Army for security reasons, so it was just a straight ride in.

With two of his Guard, he pushed the horse at an insane rate, reaching the camp in under two minutes from where he had been, three miles away.

Riding into the flaming camp, he saw two priests of the Brotherhood stand their ground against a black hooded figure. They both let loose a green ball of flame, which deflected off what seemed to be a magical shield around the interloper.

The interloper waved his hand, and the two priests burst into flames from the inside out. Alaric continued the horses' gallop, the interloper not seeing him yet. "So, is this the being that has tried to destroy our camp? Likely a servant of our enemies!" one of his Guard called out to him.

Alaric shook his head, unsheathed his rune blade and threw it from twenty yards, the barbed sword penetrating within the hooded figure. Alaric had little to smile about. The terrorist activity had nearly destroyed the camp and perhaps even the Waters! How did the Litch King find out about them? Or was it perhaps that fool Barak Demonlasher?

Slowing his steed, Alaric dismounted and walked past the flaming corpses of the priests. He pulled his rune blade out of the now dead interloper, the blood running off its edges.

"Just who are you?" one of the Guard spoke to himself, lifting the hood. With a gasp, the Blood Elf jumped back. "Lord Alaric…he is one of ours!"

"What? What nonsense-" Alaric then saw the face. Distinctly Elven, with long fine golden hair running down the length of his shoulders, the long pointed ears, the light that usually emanated from their faces gone though.

"I…know this Elf" Alaric said, stunned. He then shook himself awake "There are more of them! Find them! Even if you have to rip this camp apart, and bring them to me!" he said, beginning to search the rubble himself for survivors.

After searching for what seemed like hours, Alaric came upon old Tanin Firestar, nearly crushed under piles of stones and sharp wooden stakes. The only reason he survived was his great use of magic, creating a strong barrier of thick air between him and the rubble.

"Milord!" Tanin coughed "They…have taken a vial of the Waters!" was all he managed before passing out.

"Get this man a priest! Find a priest now!" Alaric screamed out, nothing but the flames answering him.

"Who could do this? Why would one of ours join them?" the thoughts raced in Alaric's mind faster than the speed of light, echoing as if bouncing off the sides of his skull.

Finally, one of his Guard returned with one of the uninjured Brotherhood priests, hearing his desperate calls for help. With Tanin taken care of, Alaric ran back into the belly of the beast, searching for the Waters.

Dodging pieces of popping wood and spots of flame, he finally made it to where the Waters used to be placed. Looking around in absolute horror, he could not see them at all.

But he could sense them…he still felt that bristling, tingling energy. Looking over his shoulder to a pile of wood, he quickly began to dig through the rubble. Finding a sunstone and gold lockbox, he carefully opened it, the ash on its surface smearing on his fingers.

"Thank the Light!" he cried out as he saw that all the vials were accounted for, save the one that the interlopers stole.

Finding his way out of the maze of fire, Alaric breathed in the fresh air. Yet the air wasn't all that fresh. It smelled like the burning flesh of live creatures, and he could still hear the screams from inside. Even with the fire brigade trying to save them, most who were in this portion of the camp were lost.

He numbly carried the box out of the flame, meeting another ash covered face; Dethal. "Milord! You found the Vials!" he cried out, rushing to meet Alaric.

Alaric just nodded, and collapsed onto the dirt. He handed Dethal the Vials, who then disappeared, most likely placing them in a safe place. Looking back out towards the sea, he could see a single ship moving away from the harbor trailed by a dozen smaller landing canoes.

"No, no, no, no! They are getting away!" Alaric cried out, feeling jolting back into his body once more. A group of soldiers nearby, obviously the guard of this portion of the camp just stood by idly. He grabbed one man, the captain of the regiment apparently, and screamed out "You let them in here! Now go catch them!" the human looked into his eyes with absolute resolve.

"Sir, my men have just been treated by the priests from a debilitating spell" he coolly replied.

"I don't care! Get them now!" Alaric yelled in the man's face, overcome with anger at whom had nearly destroyed their only chance of survival.

The man shuffled off with his men, racing towards the distant shore. But it was obvious that whomever they were, they could not be stopped. The canoes had already made it to the ship, which was now bearing southwest, towards the watery passages to Northrend. The traitors whom had plagued this army so long had gotten away totally clean.

Yet they were not content with that it seemed. The commandeered ship slowly turned to face the coast line where the rest of its sisters were anchored. With the sound like thunder and the huge bellowing clouds now rising from the ship, they had fired their dwarven cannon.

Twenty seconds passed until the cannon balls hit something; three ships that were carrying the dwarven gunpowder immediately went up in balls of flame. The ship continued to fire its deadly weapons, tearing sails and damaging the other ships, until it ran out of ammunition. Once again, it slowly turned towards the north, and continued, unworried about being chased by the paralyzed fleet.

Ruins of Tharenwind Harbor, Quel'thalas May 21st

The death toll had exceeded two hundred in the camp fire alone. In the fleet, nearly five hundred had died before ever reaching land, and another several dozen after. But all the bodies had been accounted for, and the records made.

Alaric called an emergency meeting with General Marcus, Eolas, Dethal, and Arrius. All but Eolas showed up. Alaric queried Dethal and Arrius on his whereabouts, but they did not know.

After the meeting, he had went into camp and asked scores of officers and enlisted men where he was, but none could give him an answer. He then went to the rosters of those whom had died, but Eolas was not on that either.

Slowly, the idea formed in his gut like a cold punch. He remembered the Elven face yesterday when the camp was burning, remembered the tactic that had been used to burn the priests from inside out. Several other blood elves and humans were missing along with a dwarf.

"A traitor…on the inside circle…one whom was considered a friend, companion…a brother…" Alaric's numb realization turned to hot anger. In his rage he must have unleashed a some kind of fire, seeing as how when the blind fury had been fought down, there was a circle of fire around him.

Pushing the flame down, he walked back towards the camp, barely keeping the fire within down. He went to Dethal's tent first of all, entering without comment and sat down on his cot. Dethal stared at him.

"Milord, what is it?" he asked.

"We have been betrayed…the Litch King knows our plans. I believe all this time he has been playing with us…seeing as how one of our most trusted friends has sold his soul to him…Eolas…that conniving bastard! He is no better than Arthas!" Alaric said, keeping his voice low in fear of letting the rage within back out again.

"Eolas? Milord, surely that is a mistake!" Dethal replied.

"No…it is no mistake. I have sensed something different in him ever since the destruction of the Sunwell…in some ways, I knew he was never the same…none of us were really. But, to strike a deal with the one that caused all this pain and suffering? It seems as though his sanity too has been shattered!" Alaric said, more speaking to himself than Dethal. "And the little fool took one of the Vials! He will bring it back to the Litch King, who will learn to use it…utilize its power…and protect himself from power such as it. It seems now that our fate is sealed. A ground invasion of Northrend is the only choice now…with the Brotherhood shattered, one of the Vials stolen, and the Scourge coming up from Stratholme, we must leave this place soon. Once again, Quel'thalas will be in the hands of the undead, but if we can destroy the Litch King, we undo the Scourge. That must be our goal now. When we reach Northrend, I shall deal with this most disgusting betrayal…myself" Alaric sighed, remembering how Eolas was once his most trusted comrade. "It has come to this then. One final assault, one final battle" he finally decided.

Dethal nodded in agreement. "Then let us prepare for this final battle milord! Once we reach Northrend, it will be a running fight, all the way to Icecrown. I have already drawn up maps to Daggercap Bay where we can land safely. Let this darkness forever be finished"

Alaric nodded, and slowly walked out of the tent, returning to his own.

"If there is any wish for your any of you men to leave, now is the time! I understand that we have been fighting for five months now with no reprieve. And some of you even longer than that! We will be entering the heart of the Scourge, into the most unforgiving landscape on this here Azeroth! There shall be no reinforcements, no backup. We shall stand or fall in that wasteland together, if that is your choice to go now.

When I look into the faces of you all, I see not a band of those who are fighting an inevitable shadow that they know will decend upon them…I see a group of men, elves, and dwarves who would give their very lives to protect and reclaim what has been ours for thousands and thousands of years!

It is clear to us, that the Scourge shall not be defeated any other way in this war, than to destroy their very bastion of power in Northrend. If that can be achieved, than all things are possible! If that is achieved, the Light shall accept all of you, as the crusaders of all good and hope! Now is your time of choice! Come with me, into the heart of this beast where we can forever secure the safety of our peoples, wives, and children. Come with me into this New Age, where all things are possible! Or leave, to your homes, and think on this day. Think, that if you had been there, could things have gone differently? Now is the time of your choice men of the 1st Army!"

The speech was over. He stood on a high bluff, overlooking a great portion of the camp where all the men had assembled in their columns and regiments. The expiration date of their enlistment had long been up, but here in the wastelands that were once great nations, the only safe place was the army. There were two ships leaving harbor back to Kul-Tiras. Two tickets out of the nightmare.

He stood quietly for a moment, before a cheer erupted. The 1st Army let forth its battle cries and cheers thirty five thousand strong. Alaric smiled. So, they would all be coming along. Into Northrend, where the heart of darkness lay.

That night, the fleet debarked. With all the men boarded and ready for this last fight, they left Quel'thalas of which they had so fought for. Behind them, the Argent Dawn, a guild of watchers and protectors would stay behind along with the last of the Brotherhood of Light's Clerics in Silvermoon. There, they would erect a great shield around the city, until help came to the besieged land once more.

But now, with all eyes turned north, the final, and greatest battles of the War of the Ruins were about to be fought on the shores, glaciers, and lands of arctic Northrend, where the Litch King lay in wait.