Chapter 20: Collation of Forces and the Shores of Northrend
"We never paid heed to the ancient prophecies…
Like fools we clung to the old hatreds….
As we had for generations…
Until the day the sky rained fire, and a new enemy came upon us…
We stand now upon the brink of destruction, for the Reign of Chaos has come…"
- Prophecy of the Burning Legion, and the Premonition of the fall of Lordaeron
"Betrayer" The voice in his head urged him "You have delivered your people into their hands"
"What people? There are none left" he said quietly, the howling wind blocking out his voice.
"Atone for yourself before it is too late. Before he has your soul forever" the voice that was his consciousness once again reminded him.
"He can have it. All that is left is to grasp what power he has promised me. For then, I shall attain true immortality, unlike to foolish tenants of the Holy Light. No, there is no turning back now. I am the Litch King's Will incarnate. The darkness is master now!" he reminded himself.
"Then you are lost" His conscious and sanity finally finished. The choice that Eolas had dreaded for so long was complete, his course set.
It was over. The great conflict of confusion between his past and present had ended. Eolas had made his final decision; to serve as the Litch King's will incarnate. He had been battling his inner demons since the destruction of Silvermoon, yet they always seemed to grow larger. With the help of his friend Alaric'Quel, whom he had escaped with, he was able to keep them subdued for a while…that was until the Litch King's crazing voice had entered his head, driving him to near insanity. That was many months ago…when they had first began their journey in Kalimdor and the campaign against the Orcs.
That darker voice allowed him no sleep, no reprieve. It brought the demons back up from deep within him, and slowly took over what he had strived so hard to become; a savior of his people and land.
The Dark Lord slowly stripped away the layers of defense he had thrown around his battered mind, taking information from him slowly, discovering all that he had helped in doing. In time, Eolas accepted the fact that the Litch King had chosen him as a vassal for his will. Soon enough, he felt honored as his sanity and mind became twisted by the Litch King's awesome powers.
It was in this time the Litch King threw great and wondrous images at him. Almost utterly consumed by such displays of power, his weakened mind fell prey almost immediately to the Lord of the undead. Images of a great paradise of eternal darkness. An ever stretching army of subjects to bring about such will, crushing quite literally everything in their way that lived, whether it be a man, or an ant, or a blade of green grass.
Slowly, he forgot his anger and vows to destroy kill such a magnificent lord of death. Slowly, the grandiose ideas fed to him by the Litch King grew, as his mind corrupted like a rotting tree.
But when he and the rest of this army of rabble had re-entered Silvermoon, and he saw the old ruins, the good within him resurfaced, if only for a little while. Since that moment, the great battles between his sanity and the power of the Lord of the undead had continued, further wracking his already tattered mind.
Until now. The deed was done, and Eolas had made his choice. His own choice. He had chosen the path that lay with the Litch King. The path into the cold, snowy northlands. Forsaking all that he had once held dear, beloved, and cherished, he, now with a small group of followers made their way to their new Lord's most glorious Tower to deliver the great prize that they had stolen from under the very noses of their former friends and allies.
"Lord Eolas" a new voice spoke out. But this one was not within him. It was from another. He turned his heavily coated body towards the sound, the snow now starting to come down from the gray clouds in heavy drifts. He turned to see the face of a snow-pale human, tattoos scattered across his face.
"Yes acolyte?" Eolas replied, the voice now filled with malice, cruelty, and the corruption of the Litch King.
"We have nearly reached Daggercap Bay. The Death Knights of Draktharon Keep should be on the shore awaiting our arrival"
"Good. But it will be I that delivers our great prize to the Litch King, not some foolish Death Knights. I shall be the one to bask in the glory of his presence" Eolas finished the statement by waving his hand at the acolyte in a clear gesture of annoyance at his presence.
Draktharon Keep had once been the place of safety for the people of the Lordaeronian settlement of Gundrak. Gundrak had been the north-most place of exploration of Azeroth. But before the Third War, it had been infected by the same plague that had so ailed Lordaeron, destroying its population and turning it into one of the first armies for the Litch King. Draktharon Keep had fallen shortly after and become the residence of the Dread Lord Mal'Ganis. Soon after Mal'Ganis' death, the Keep was abandoned and left to the snows, though Death Knights and Litches sometimes made their stay there before leaving on the ships to the Plaugelands where they would continue the war against the troublesome Alliance.
Standing up for the first time in many hours, Eolas stretched his muscles and observed the coastline that was so far off. His old friend, Alaric, would follow, of that he knew. He would try to redeem him, try to bring him back under the sway of the Light. Eolas chuckled at the thought. Only the Lord of Death held any sway over him now.
And in the end, the fool Alaric, and all his followers would die. When that happened, the last true hero's of the Alliance would be gone, for they all followed him and his idiotic machinations, there would be nothing left to oppose the Litch Kings final march south.
And so the Fleet had set sail. The great and renowned 1st Alliance Army, first in name and reputation in the grand Alliance, which had been commanded by the heroic and legendary generals of the Second War and fought against Orcs from the shores of the south to the very Tirisfal Glades, that had trudged through the knee deep recently plague infected corpses in the Third War to do battle with the vast ranks of walking dead, to the recent campaigns that had taken them from the besieged of Stromgarde to the ruins of Silvermoon, had set its eyes now on the vastly unexplored and mysterious Northrend.
Aided with reinforcements from Stromwind led by General Marcus Jonathan, their numbers near ten and a thousand, they had set sail on the combined fleets of Kul-Tiras and Azeroth.
They would march on the heart of the undead infestation nearly forty thousand strong, a grand army, the 1st Army. It's reputation had seen it to many victories and losses, yet hopefully, this would be a final decision. Perhaps it could all end here, in this desolate ice wasteland.
They were led by an Elf. The first Elf to command an army of the Alliance. There had been Elven generals and commanders, but never one to command an entire army. He had shown them that perhaps the misbegotten 'Long Ears' could actually command, and had led them on this long and strenuous campaign. They had learned to follow him, as they would any other human commander, whether it be Lord Lothar as the old grizzled veterans remembered, or the newer generation that had commanded them in the Third War.
Yet despite their many victories, across the Eastern Kingdoms the lands they had retaken silently fell once again. Stromgarde, Dalaran, Southshore, and Hillsbrad were now out of reach of the undead true, but the rest slowly felt the black curses falling upon them once more, the new ziggurats that spewed their life killing noxious fumes into the land.
For this war, there was but one chance left for the Alliance. To take the fight to the Scourge, and to finish the job once and for all. Already Gilneas had begun to show signs of complete withdrawal from not only the Alliance, but the entire world.
Their foolish King had erected a massive wall in the valley that connected them to the rest of Lordaeron, not letting even refugees through. This had to be the final push; the final battle that would decide this war, if there would be an end to the Scourge, or more fighting that could, dread be, stretch on forever in the battle scarred world of Azeroth.
These men knew it was up to them. And so, with solemn and quite indignation, they prepared themselves upon the ships that had come so far from their home ports. These were the hours that would decide the fate of the world…
Yet, not far behind them lay a bewildered army of night elves. Their expedition had taken them from the comforts of their home forests into this horrid land to destroy their out-of-control brethren, the Blood Elves, from using the Waters they so stole from their sacred resting place. And so they too, met with the ships that had borne them from their homes to this sorrowful place to chase their quarry, even if it took them to the very beyond.
Their leader had faced him in combat, and secretly, beneath his oath the hunt down every last one of the Vials that contained the Waters, he would kill the pale faced infidel that had so dishonored him…
And so, in the icy recesses of Northrend, a great battle would erupt. One, that would forever change the face of Azeroth…
Alliance Fleet, Northern Seas
Vice Admiral Jes-Tereth had set off with a fleet of nearly four hundred ships; all that remained of Kul-Tiras' navy after the exodus from Lordaeron led by the sorceress Jaina Proudmoore, Theramore Affair with the Horde and the Third War. Joining them from Menethil Harbor was the Navy of Stormwind, which bolstered their numbers to nearly seven hundred strong, with a force of thousands of sailors and marines.
She was by native birth of Azerothian blood, yet upon her promotion to Vice Admiral had been working closely with Grand Admiral Daelin, and after his death, Tandred Proudmoore to rebuild the Navy of the Alliance, in Kul-Tiras' capital.
Progress had been slow though, with all the nations of the Alliance nearly bankrupted by the war or relief for those who fled south. And now, without much warning, the entire fleet had been assigned to a lunatic mission to transport Alliance forces to Northrend; a nightmarish land filled with Light knows what creatures and beasts!
As if Tandred's father's death hadn't made things hard enough on her, Tandred not being quite the man his father was, the entire fleet had been sent off on this blasted, damnable quest.
They passed around the coast of Lordaeron, surveyed the ruins of once great harbor cities. Twice armada's of the undead had assailed them, and massive sea battles had occurred, yet with her expertise from the late Daelin Proudmoore's infinite mind for sea tactics, they had not only been able to win the two battles, but open a small channel to Northrend that would be completely safe for at least another month due to the utter destruction of the Scourge's navies.
They had been her victories, but the glory sucking Tandred Proudmoore, ever looking to lift his reputation, would of course take all the recognition.
"Vice Admiral, permission to speak!" a voice cut through the frigid air.
"Granted Captain" she replied, her voice of cold steel. Oft she would be mistaken for an angry and always annoyed person by her tone, yet that was the way she had been brought up, and lived with it.
"The Lord General wishes to confer with you in private" the captain of the Sea Eagle informed, breath forming great clouds as if he smoked a dwarven pipe.
"Inform him I shall be with him immediately. Let the good General into the Vice Admiral's Galley if you will"
The Captain nodded, stood at attention and saluted before pivoting away on the wooden deck. Looking above, a vast overcast hung across the sky. White sprinkles began to fall from the dark clouds. They drew close to Northrend.
"And so the troop deployments will be around three main areas in Daggercap Bay. It is most suited for landing and anchoring a fleet of this size" the long eyebrows of the Elf twitched as he spread his hand across the incomplete map of the northern continent.
Jes-Tereth nodded calmly. She knew not these waters, but in the latter days of Lordaeron the great expedition led by Prince Arthas had thoroughly explored this area as well as the interior all the way to the now abandoned Drak'theradon Keep.
"We should position the navy here" she said, pointing towards a small alcove near the western cliff face "It could maintain a strong defensive position as well as be close enough to ferry troops from a retreat back to us in short time"
The Lord General, Lord Alaric'Quel, last known descendent of the royal Sunstrider's of Quel'thalas, gave her a look of approval.
"So today the landings begin" he said quietly. This would be the greatest military campaign of the Alliance since the many battles with Grand Marshal Garithos, and his great and ultimate failure. The fool had shunned help at all sides from which they came. Elves, dwarfs, and even wayward (or thought to be so) naga had offered their services, yet one after the other he had offended them into splitting their pact to him as a commander.
And a foolish one he was. Garithos had served in the Second War as a knight of Lordaeron, yet had always clung to the days when prejudices had been strong between the races of the Alliance. He had risen through the ranks in the Third War, when most other commanders had either been killed or went missing. Eventually given the rank of Grand Marshal of Alliance Forces, he had foolishly sent them in waves after waves against the enemy with no tactics or strategy at all, just one bloody day after another. A most incompetent commander indeed.
And then there had been the ill fated Anduin Praeton, who took command after Garithos. By then the Third War had ended, and most major action was done with. Praeton was a vast improvement over Garithos, with his skill and caution in tactics and battle. He was never without bad luck though. When the Battle of Hillsbrad occurred months ago, nearly his entire force was shattered by the overwhelming numbers of the Scourge. Yet he managed to scrape them together to save Southshore from complete razing…
And then of course came the Elven commander, Alaric Faltron'Quel. A first among his kin to bear the title of Grand Marshal of Alliance Forces. It was thought by Jes to be highly symbolical of the unity in the war-torn and shattered Alliance. And he too proved to be of great knowledge of battle, creating enormous success if only for a little time. She had been told by his men that he was always bright faced, youthful looking, and confident and brash.
Yet today she did not see that. She saw a weary soul in need of confession. Faith in the Holy Light at such times could be quite granting when it came to mental health as well.
The run down looking commander then turned his back, the preparations now complete. At exactly noon today, the 1st Corps of the 1st Army would storm the beaches.
Daggercap Bay, Noon
Glorious: that was the only word for it. Genn Blackswift saw the beginning himself. Hundreds upon hundreds of landing craft each bearing three dozen a man rowing towards the icy shoreline.
It had begun to snow the night before, and the troops all received the warm rations that the northern navies were used to. They also had been issued winter clothing, to fit under and above their plate and mail; scarves, coats, thick soled boots, hoods, fur under garments, and more.
Their weapons had been cleaned for the most part, the blood stains ripped off the blade by the good ol' soap and water. Today, this young farming man from the outskirts of Haventown, Stromgarde would assail the very shores of the mystical and mysterious northern lands that so few had ever seen.
He and the thousands of others stared in awe as they pushed slowly away from the fleet led so skillfully here by Admiral Tandred Proudmoore and Vice Admiral Jes-Tereth. Pride filled the hearts of all as they saw the banners, streamers, and colors of their respective nations and the Alliance flying high and straight in the bone-chilling winds.
It was a scene like no other. In force the leading elements of the invasion force of Northrend began to reach the icy beaches, yet no Undead greeted them with sword or arrow.
It took great effort to get the boat through the semi-thin ice and to the shore, yet Genn and his rowers were able to do so. Before any of his men did so, Genn hoped out of the rowboat, his legs submerging in the knee-deep numbingly cold water. He slogged his way up onto the beach, where when he set foot the satisfying crunch of snow was heard.
Northrend: They were on the roof of the world, the end of the world... "A romantic thought" he chuckled, as he signaled for the rest of his men to disembark. To the sides he saw the other rowboats emptying, as the 1st Army of the Grand Alliance set foot on the home turf of the Scourge.
One day later
The Army marched in battle formation. Alaric positioned his command near the center of the lines. They had all come upon the shore without problems and the Navy had laid anchor where it was.
Just beyond the mile long beach was a steep embankment which was covered by dead and thin trees, yet their quantity in the grove that they lay upon blocked out the sight from behind them. The Army now marched up the base of the mountains that lay in front of them. According to the old navigation charts, there was a labyrinth of passages and canyons at the top of the rugged terrain.
The five corps of the Army, thirty nine thousand eight hundred and sixty one souls in total, each with its divisions, battalions, and regiments marched at each others flanks with cavalry in between each gap to protect in case of a sudden breakthrough. Pike men and footmen covered the frontal lines and right behind were the archer regulars.
The mages were dispersed throughout the lines. The Knights of the Silver Hand also rode with them, acting as generals and advisors to the Lords and Nobles that commanded a vast portion of the Army.
His own Blood Elven breatheren were also scattered across the Army, many taking up vital positions. They were few as always, since that dark time when that bastard Arthas had ravaged their land. Along with the gryphon riders of Aeire Peak, many Dragonhawks, majestic, mystical creatures that were once friends of the Elves before the scourging of Lordaeon, had come forth and heeded the call of the Elves once more.
Alaric surveyed the grand scene from the rear and center. To his fore the thousands of men and women of the Alliance slowly trudged up the steep hill, with no knowledge of what lay before them. The scouts were due back half an hour ago, yet had not returned.
"I shall wait one more half hour. If they are not back, then you shall scout the situation out yourself eh?" he chuckled to Dethal, who sat quietly on his mount, long ears twitching in the cold.
Alaric thought back to the battles he had fought, the skill of tactics and its different applications on the battlefields. The battles for Stromgarde, the ruins of the Capital, the Tirisfal Glades, and Silvermoon, not to mention the dozens of smaller scale battles that they had already encountered.
The War of the Ruins was a muse. A small part in his plan, of which he never truly revealed to anyone, to draw forth most of the armies of the Scourge so that his own force could land upon the shores of Northrend, and from there topple Icecrown Throne, and utterly vanquish Arthas, the Litch King, with the Waters of Eternity, the only thing powerful to destroy a being of such intense energy.
That though was only the second choice…the first being that they made it to Silvemoon and were able to use the magics of the place to shred Northrend to pieces from there, alas though Eolas had betrayed him…once his best friend and most loyal subject, turned to the side of death and sorrow. In some ways he felt more than betrayal, he felt a vast, eternal well of rage inside him, just one more tragedy on the list.
"Betrayal is the most cowardly thing one can do, and the worst feeling to the one whom has been betrayed…" Alaric thought, watching the vast plumes of breath rise from the Army as they panted their way up the steep incline.
As the Army continued up the mountain top Alaric's sharp elven eyes caught the movement of an envoy of five knights, their once oiled and gleaming armor now dirtied and covered in bloodstains, riding towards his command point.
"Milord! Milord!" the lead knight cried out. They were the scouts he had sent out earlier, yet only half their number had returned. The knights trotted up to them now, horses sweat beginning to freeze in the frigid temperature, their breath roiling up in massive clouds, icicles hanging from some of their beards.
"Aye!" Alaric called back waving his hand in the air, which caused small clinking noises on his terraced shoulder plate.
The knight's mount now bore him to Alaric's front, where he quickly saluted the elf.
"Lord General, a vast army of the undead gathers just beyond the hills! They're numbers stretch beyond the horizon, though we did spot a slight in their lines to the northeast" the knight confirmed his suspicions. The Litch King would not allow him to march upon the Icecrown Glacier without a fight. But yes, these men and women would barrel themselves through the abominations, the skeletons, and the other foul beasts that the Scourge incorporated into its fold.
"Good work man. The information will be used greatly in the battle soon to come. May the Light be with you" he dismissed the knight and his envoys, whom trotted slowly back towards the base camp which lay some quarter of a league behind the Army's slow ascent.
With the information readily received, Alaric begun to file out reports and orders to the many runners that had begun to gather around his mount.
1st Corps, 8th Regiment, upon the hill
Genn moved past the ranks of his men, of whom had recently been combined with the 21st Dwarven Warriors. They now numbered three hundred and four. His Captains, Jordann Valleran, a stout human of the small farming communities of Westfall, and Thormace Belgarlan, the leader of the dwarven troops added to his own, slowly trudged up the icy hillside beside him.
"We are approaching the peaks" Jordann muttered as he blew warm air into a cup he made with his hands in a futile attempt to warm his nearly frostbitten fingers. The dwarves that had recently joined them apparently seemed to be enjoying the cold air though.
In front of them the leading elements of the Army began to move to battle formation. Yet he could see little beyond them. The mass of tangled brown vines and dead trees blocked out any picture of what lay below the tall hill.
Now to his sides he began to hear the shouts for the second line, which included his infantry detail, to form up into battle lines.
"OK, boys, lets do this right. Captain Valleran, you take Second Company. Captain Belgarlan," he pointed to the dwarven captain whose soldiers had been added to his own, "you take Third Company. Form up on my flanks, and may the Light be with you…we'll need it I believe" he said quickly, nodding his head to each of the captains whom nodded back.
The hill began to level out now. They were on its top, weaving their way through the dark, lifeless trees and long labyrinth canyons that stretched across the roof of the hills.
Genn tightened his grip around his sword, which hung anxiously at his side. Glancing behind him, he saw that the men's eyes were filled with fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of death. Just…fear…and yet, courage; courage to stand up to the most powerful force in the world. It was men like these that would decide the day; harderned veterans who had fought for years against the common enemy.
Just ahead Genn saw that the weak light of the sun, (surprising enough that it had risen at all in this forsaken wasteland), began to permeate through the thinning trees. Marching forward, following the first lines, Genn now began to feel the slight warmth of the sun on what little of his skin was uncovered by clothing or armor.
And below him, stretching to the distant mountain ranges and perhaps even beyond was a vast black carpet that blocked out the white snow and blue ice. It seemed like a massive nest of ants that spilled over the landscape, covering the hidden ice caves, sudden drops, and other terrain.
Genn's heart dropped. It was the largest thing he had ever seen: larger than the battle against the orcish Horde at Mulgore Plains; larger even than the great host that had assailed them at the Bulwark of Tirisfal.
The horns blared. The first lines slowly began to double march, and then charge into the enemy. Below them, the lines of silver clad footmen, arched over head by the arrows of the archers, and smoke from the dwarven rifle regiments began to clash with the waves of undead ghouls, abominations, and other beasts that the Litch King ruled over.
His battle line, several thousands strong, now began its slow decent into the inferno below. Genn steeled his heart for the beginning of the end, and perhaps one of mankind's greatest chapters of history.
Minutes passed as he and the battle line slowly made their way down the path, to where the front lines, where now hundreds of cavalry led by hearty knights broke through the first wave of undead.
The horns blared again…Genn's mind froze. Slowly he turned his head to look at the flag bearers in the regiments that flanked him. They were going in, their men dressed to the colors.
The thumping noise of cavalry rushed in from behind them, another wave of the horse bound riders intent on keeping the breaks that the first battle line had created in check. Genn unsheathed his sword with painful slowness, strained his heavy armored arm into the air, and let forth a shrill battle cry.
The battle had begun. It was time…
Profile: The Undead Scourge
From the cold recesses of Northrend they came. A vast army of mangled and ravaged corpses that had risen from the grave. Joined by the beasts of the north that had been tamed by the dread Litch King, the former orc warlock Ner'zhul, they began a massive invasion of the northern human kingdom of Lordaeron, after a plague of undeath had been seeded throughout its northern provinces. The necromantic army of undeath slowly grew with each passing battle, the forces of Lordaeron being mostly lead by the Crown Prince of the Throne, Arthas Menethil. After Arthas's taking up of Frostmourne, his very soul was torn from him, and he became the first of the Litch King's Death Knights and vassals. Under his command, the armies of the Scourge crushed Lordaeron, and went on to become one of the most powerful forces that Azeroth has ever seen…
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