Chapter 21: The Clash of Frost and Flame
Ironforge, the High Seat, June 27th
King Magni Bronzebeard, Thane of the Bronzebeard Clan, Lord of the fortress city Ironforge, and integral member of the Grand Alliance, stared across the Great Forge which his ancestors had striven to create. The Forge, lying in the center of the city of Ironforge, was a symbol to all dwarves of Khaz Modan of their heritage and power over earth and stone.
Though the War of the Three Hammers had split the Clans, the Bronzebeard and Wildhammer Dwarves continued to flourish, though alas these darker days had appeared.
The Second War had all but imprisoned the dwarves of Khaz Modan and Dun Morogh in the few last standing bastions of Earthen might, yet thanks to the humans and their Alliance the Dwarves were freed. In that most glorious time Magni had pledged himself and his people to the Alliance wholly. Peace he thought was just there on the horizon, when the Scourge appeared, and wiped out Lordaeron, one of the greatest human nations. But the carnage did not stop there. A massive invasion of the High Elven kingdom of Quel'thalas also succeeded, and then the invasion of the Burning Legion at Dalaran had all but ruined the northern continent. Yes, dark times these were indeed.
"Hail, King Bronzebeard of Ironforge!" to his right flank a voice erupted, its hearty tone and highland accent clearly that of a dwarf. He noticed the shabbily dressed dwarf with dirty red hair standing in front of him as a messenger he had sent of to Stormwind weeks earlier.
"Aye, and so ye have returned Grimdor Hallis. What news do ye bring of the outside world?"
The dwarf, bowing ever lower, answered back in a nervous tone
"Milord, the human King wishes to report that Gilneas has pulled steak and abandoned the Alliance, and also that the land invasion of Northrend has begun"
Anger welled up inside Magni. Gilneas had ever been the isolationist, and now that things weren't looking too good, again they decided to barricade themselves behind their wall. But on the other hand, this new Lord Marshal had actually invaded Northrend, against his every belief.
Northrend…a word he so loathed. He had lost his brother, Muradin, there to whatever damnable forces lay on that continent, and now his youngest brother had gone of in some ill fated adventure to discover what it was that befell his elder.
Hiding his emotions Magni replied shortly
"There is no turning back now for this Grand Marshal 'Quel now…his fate is his own"
And with that said, Magni turned back overlooking the Great Forge where his dwarven brethren continued to pump out the much needed machines for the war effort.
June 27th, Northrend, the Eleventh Hour
Ahead the battle proceeded, leaving a wake of dead and wounded. They had pushed a several miles inland, thrusting into the lines of the Scourge with quick jabbing movements.
Duke and Lord General Tal Winfield looked upon the din of battle, where the entirety of his 1st Corps, the heart of the old 1st Army as they proceeded. Activity spiraled around him, runners being sent off almost as quickly as he had come up with the orders to tell them; most of the time he didn't even have the chance to elaborate on his instructions and directions. That could bring everything down.
To their front lay a vast expanse of open ice and snow fields, then succeeded by several miles of mountain range to the north and stretching on to the west. After that it was the icy caverns of the mysterious place called Ajol-Nerub. Next to nothing was known about how to traverse that area, so instead the force would bypass the bulk of it, forming an echelon on its southern flank to protect it against any force that might try and attack them from the rear until they got to the dangerous glaciers of Icecrown.
But for now, the tactic was set. A vast host of the enemy had beset their entire front. The first five hours had proven to be quite inconclusive, leading only to the slaughter of hundreds of his finest men. After the front lines had bogged down into a stalemate, the wizards and mages of what remained of the Kirin Tor's fighting force unleashed a massive magical storm upon the ranks of the undead as they had during the Siege of Dalaran, mowing many thousands of the walking dead down for good.
And into the breach the Grand Marshal and High General, Alaric'Quel, had told him to go. Four regiments of his top crack men and a platoon of red and silver clad cavalry from Stromgarde poured into the break like water through cracks in the Scourge's line of battle.
Reports of massive casualties were already streaming in with the many runners that had accumulated around him; they had begun to roll the Scourge's line up as the 2nd Corps did the same, and the 4th, with the 3rd and 5th in reserve, flanked the undead army yet at a frightful cost.
And still the fighting was not over. Though some of the leading elements of the Scourge's force had melted under their combined attacks many more still now began to reform around the base of the northern mountains. It was in the hands of the men now.
"General! General! Captain Grimes of the 1st Division begs for his men to be relieved. He estimates over one third casualties. Most of his men are collapsing where they were just fighting! He says that he cannot hold the gap open much longer" a sudden voice cut through the air.
A young boy, probably in his late teens stood wide-eyed in front of him waving a hastily written letter in the air.
Now it was getting out of hand. His Corps was completely fought out, reeling from hundreds of losses. True they had broken the Undead here, and that the 3rd was flanking the opposing army, as he could see their battle lines mowing through the Scourge, but now they had completely lost momentum. If the Undead decided to counterattack on his direct position his entire line would crumble…
Like they did that first battle… he thought, thinking back to his first trounce with the Scourge in Valden Hamlet in southern Lordaeron two years back when the first relief force had been able to make it past Dalaran.
"Tell him to hold his position as long as possible. I am sending an additional two regiments to him as we speak. Once they arrive he can start pulling his most battered units out of the fray, but only them" he ordered out.
Next, he pointed to an elder runner, and gestured to the battle ready reserve regiments forming up on the ridge of the hill
"Get those men into battle formation. We need to reinforce Captain Grimes' line of engagement. When they position properly, the 32nd Stormwind Cavalry will rush into the gaps between your lines"
The runner nodded and was off. He quickly put his fur gloved hands together, trying to rub some warmth into the ironically heat deprieved digits of his.
How he wished to be back in the warmth of an Elwynn spring; the gentle sunlight beaming through the tall trees, the sound of the forest waking up to the morning, the smithy's rhythmic hammer, the soft touch of his bride, their marriage a year that past week, the rabbits coming out of their holes to pick on the farmers crops…that would definitely make a better meal now than the foul rations they brought with them and the meager scrapings off the land.
His mind snapped back to reality as a sudden bolt of chaotic energy exploded several dozen yards from him. Bodies were flung through the air…screams…the taste of blood in his mouth…
"The Lord General is down! The General is down! Get him a stretcher now!" he could hear his aide shouting out frantic and desperate orders. Slowly, a warm pool of blood began to form under his back. Looking up into the sky, he could see that dark clouds now gathered, and that snow had begun to fall. That was the last thing he noticed before blacking out.
The Frontlines:
Genn sliced his broadsword in another swing, crushing through the skull of one of his soldiers. The one's life he had just ended had been possessed by a banshee spirit loyal to the damnable Undead, effectively ending whatever sanity and restraint the man might've had before.
Across the line of battle though, success was being met. The great siege ballistae and catapults along with a regiment of dwarven steam tanks were putting on a fearsome toll for the Undead beasts.
To the far left of the battlefield the 3rd Corps had successfully began to break up the Scourge, whom were left in a chaotic state as their leaders panicked and turned tail.
"This is almost too easy" Genn thought to himself. The idea had been a simple one; a major assault along the front with a flanking force of heavy cavalry and an entire corps of troops…yet no one had expected the Undead to route so easily…
He could see the disorder spreading through their ranks as far as a mile down, slowly etching closer towards his line of battle. In a matter of minutes he would order the regiment to push fully into the Undead, to crumble their lines and push them along with the rest of the army hopefully as far as the steep hills in the distance, perhaps a league off.
"Push em' boys!" he shouted out, wiping the grime from his eyelids. The snow was falling heavily now, at an incessant rate. Wind too had picked up, causing dangerous frostbite on the hands of his footmen.
The regiment cheered as they strode forward, hacking and slashing at the ailing beasts of the north and other underlings of the Litch King. Genn could see it now, the discord in the rest of the Undead lines had reached them, and now they began to stare around dumbly or attack one another in some cases; but they still fought. They still killed.
After successive minutes of hard pushing, the lines of his men and the 1st Corps met up with those of the flanking troops, and finally ended the battle. Nearly six hours had passed since the fighting had started. As he had heard from the command chain, the Lord General Winfield had been wounded, and now Captain Loren, another whom had traveled to Kalimdor with the enigmatic Alaric'Quel, had taken over the troops.
The Undead were completely routed from the field, much of their number now carpeting the icy plains, quickly being covered up by the heavy snow. Genn reformed his battle weary regiment, now half their number. The dwarf, Belgarlan had pushed his troops nearly to the center of the Undead lines, and had won great heroism and praise from command.
But it still didn't feel right…The Undead had been pushed too easily from the field. Never had they fled from battle as they had today, most of the creatures instead fighting to the death.
Fears confirmed, on the horizon, beyond another small set of rolling snow covered hills, a great thumping sound began to resonate. Alarmed he looked around to see that others noticed it too, and that small platoons of cavalry were scattering about the front of the mile off hills.
"In line boys! FORM RANKS NOW!" he shouted out at the men whom only moments ago been gloating over their victory were now shattered.
As his regiment formed ranks again so did that of the army's unprotected flank. He saw the dwarven captain rush up to him muttering in dwarvish, pushing through a flow of hollow eyed men as they reformed and emboldened themselves.
"Kharak zhun krakk'an darz" he repeated one more time before looking directly into Genn's eyes.
"Best prepare yourself boyo', cus I ain't never seen anything like this 'efore"
On those distant hills, a long, snaking, black line began to appear. Battle flags and standerds bearing the Skull and Swords of the Scourge slowly rose on the horizon followed quickly by the outlines and silhouettes of great abominations and monsters.
As the dark line continued to cover the top of the hills, thousands of pikes and lances began to show as the lesser denizens of the army of the dead approached. The front ranks, thousands of rotting corpses and skeletons.
The dark sky began to grow darker now as the elaborately robed litches, somewhere beyond the hills cast spells of frost and storm. The snowfall doubled in almost half a minute and winds began to pick up. The men, closely packed together set off the illusion that a great cloud of steam rose from the army as their breath left them upon seeing the enemy.
Along the front of the enemy's force, black clad horsemen zipped about, pointing their minions toward battle. Those Death Knights, with their dread Fel-Steeds continued about their leading oblivious to the great masses beginning to drop from the clouds above.
Great frost wyrms, the corpses of dragons, rotting, festering carcasses that were a twisted abomination of all that dragonkind stood for, the hideous and terrifying gargoyles, great beasts of the north, the creatures known only as "Destroyers", their unholy form draining those they saw as enemies of their magical essence, and more began to descend from the graying sky.
The beasts of the north and the Undead continued their slow march, many of their underlings emitting foul plague ridden clouds of disease. Beyond the hills, the sky lit in a blue aura, and then suddenly dozens of blue fireballs were launched from the hills, arcing lazily in the sky before crashing down on the preparing army of the Alliance.
Dozens died within seconds, many only seeing the flash of blue light before the darkness embraced them. Yet the black continued to engulf the hills, moving directly on them.
The terrifying forms of the demonic Nathrezim or Dreadlords appeared, sifting through the ranks of the undead, many of them falling into line with the Scourge after the Burning Legion's defeat.
More and more horrifying, unholy, objects continued to pass, all followed by an endless maw of undead beings.
Genn stared on in passivity, all feeling shaken out of him. Whatever this force was that was assailing them, it far outnumbered them. From behind came the sudden squawk followed by a massive fleet of gryphons ridden by their loyal Wildhammer dwarves and elven guided dragonhawks filling the skies to answer the call of aerial battle.
"SEND EM BACK TO THE GREAT BEYOND!" cries from the sergeants began to rise up. The army soon was worked into frenzy as the call was resonated and multiplied.
The lines of the Alliance began to move forward to answer the challenge of their enemy. And soon, the world would behold the clash that would shake its foundations.
Frontlines of the Scourge
Eolas Deathweaver rode upon his new mount; a skeletal steed with glowing purple eyes and fiery hooves. He leveled his blade, now carved with demonic runes of great power, and focused it toward the mass of armored ants below the slight depression of the hills.
He had seen the citadel of Icecrown. Had laid his sword to the Litch King's feet and utterly bound himself to his will forever. And now, as his first official act as the Litch King's servant he along with the other Death Knights were to lead this most glorious army to the destruction of the Alliance fools whom had followed.
True the army was immense, but it was all that was scraped up from Northrend. The attack had surprised Eolas, whom thought Alaric would stay in Quel'thalas and tend to his plants and broken city and so the Scourge had left the bulk of its forces in the Plaguelands. It mattered not now though.
This vast host was meant for one thing; to guard Northrend and to finish the scourging of the world.
"It will be done" Eolas uttered his voice dark and dry now.
Behind lay the ranks of the undead. Behind him he saw the host, reaching to the horizon and beyond. To the left and right the frontline, made of festering zombies, feral ghouls, and decomposed skeleton pikemen and swordsmen, stretched beyond his enhanced vision.
Holding up the corrupted elven blade of which he had aptly named "Defiler" over his head he ordered a halt to his troops, nearly a third of the force. And nearly immediately his new mental powers stopped them dead in their tracks. Smiling at such a show of force in the powers of the Litch King, Eolas laughed with the joviality of a madman.
"There is the Alliance! There lays there hope! Crush them my warriors! Onward to death!" he then shouted out.
He began his charge, of which his innumerable warriors followed. Still laughing with the intensity of a thousand demons, he unleashed his foul black magic upon the hapless Alliance frontlines. In seconds a dozen footmen's skin was melted off in their armor.
Eolas Deathweaver swung Defiler at the footmen in his path, quickly cutting a hole in their line as his forces smashed into them as well. Taking the life out of those whom he had once called allies gave him nothing but glee and the blood upon his blade brought no greater joy to Eolas's now twisted and wretched mind.
With the darkness at his command and the new knowledge of necromancy, he lifted his hands from the stirrups and uttered a word in the language of the demons, and soon those whom had fallen around him began to stir. Those that had enough left of them began to rise, stumbling and tripping, but with enough control the start swinging their swords and falling upon the soldiers of the Alliance.
The animated dead fell upon their former allies with no contempt or mercy. Eolas commanded them and kept up his own fight at the same time with the amazing new powers that the Litch King had granted him.
Suddenly a crash came upon him as his steed crumbled beneath. He jumped quickly, landing on his feet to see a paladin, a tall and proud grey eyed human with a salt and pepper beard, coming straight at him amidst the chaos.
He quickly dodged the oncoming mace, which swept only a few millimeters away from his own now whitening hair. Backstepping he brought Defiler over his great skull shoulder plate armor and parried another swing from the Paladin. Eolas then unleashed a spell of darkness, only to have it absorbed by the Paladin's magical energy shield. In a lightning set of steps Eolas twirled around the Paladin and thrust Defiler in his back, twisting and turning the blade until the Paladin fell to his knees, and then fell for the final time onto the snowy ground.
Eolas filled with sweeping confidence as he charged head on into the forces of the Alliance seeking blood.
Alliance Command, Northrend
It was now or never that they would break the lines of the Scourge and march on Icecrown, the supposed seat of the Litch King's power ; before him was arrayed a vast army, many tens of thousands strong.
This was the ultimate culmination of the Third War and the War of the Ruins. The mind's psyche had all but been snapped now, and the warriors, whether they be his brethren, dwarvish, or the various human nations, all sped forth craving for the timely death of their enemy.
Alaric pulled the reins on his steed, stopping it before the front lines. He surveyed the battlefield as his legions moved forward. These men were no different now, whatever race or country they came from. They were a band of brothers dedicated to stand or fall together in this wasteland. And thus the battle commenced.
With a deafening cry the lines of infantry hurled themselves into the enemy. Fireballs, ice storms, ballistae bolts, catapult balls, and more filled the skies. Dwarven riflemen cocked and reloaded their blunderbusses inflicting a terrible toll on the ghoulish minions of the Scourge.
Yet just beyond the front lines necromancers, damned living men that had sold their souls to the Litch King for power and eternal life in death, began the rituals of raising the dead.
Mass chaos ensued.
Alaric had already lost the Duke of Goldshire, Lord General Tal Winfield, whom was behind the lines being tended to, his wound near mortal. His old subordinate, Captain Loren, commander of a regiment of Lordaeronian survivor volunteers that had fled south to Stormwind, and whom had also accompanied him on the Expedition through Kalimdor, had taken the wounded Duke's place. In main command of the front line was General Jonathan Marcus of Stormwind, a seasoned and impressive commander.
Dethal and the few Clerics that had come with him now watched carefully as the battle played out. Hidden under Alaric's ebony magic resistant cape a small magically enhanced wooden case. Inside the case were six of the original nine vials filled with the mystical Waters of Eternity.
Alaric could feel their impossible power swelling inside, and he had almost been able to use them until the traitor Eolas had stolen three of the precious vials from their own camp.
A wave of emotion overcame Alaric for a moment as he thought of his old friend. No, that person was dead; gone forever, replaced by a maddened and insane puppet.
"It is time sire" Dethal whispered.
Alaric nodded as he slowly slipped the case out carefully, looking around with a fatherly stare to see if anything was to disturb the Waters. Unlatching it, he looked upon the faintly shimmering droplets of Water…yet…not truly water as much as the pure essence of magic.
"Let us begin" he said in a ghostly voice. Alaric unchained the Book of Medivh which had been secretly stowed also under his jet black cape. He opened the dusty tome of power to a certain page which had symbols and runes strewn across it.
"The Litch King, with his power already and the Waters of which he has stolen shall try and stop us" Tanin Firestar, the Arch-Cleric said solemnly to which Alaric nodded. "We too have been weakened by leaving Clerics to set up magical barriers in Silvermoon against the Scourge's attack" he ended.
"But not in vain! We could not let it sit helplessly after we had worked so hard to take it back" Dethal rebuked. It mattered not. Alaric silenced them, and slowly unplugged the first Vial.
Small tendrils of blue energy seeped out of the vial as if the Waters themselves were reaching for freedom. Selecting a satisfying phrase from the Book of Medivh, Alaric uttered a word and a Circle of Power which illuminated the dirt-and-snow ground in ancient runes, appeared beneath him and the two other spell casters.
With the other two casters feeding him their mana and energy, Alaric directed the vapor of pure essence of magic across the field, eliminating hundreds of undead warriors with just a few fell strokes. He felt the infinite energies flowing through him, giving him a power of unfathomable thought; though he could feel that even the mighty Book of Medivh prevented him, or anyone, even the Litch King, from utilizing most of the magic from the Waters as it lacked the knowledge of such a power. Most of the magic just seemed to slip out of his body like sand in someone's hand.
Yet across the battlefield seemingly random battalions and groups of undead and northern beasts were suddenly crushed by walls of air, or sudden gusts of wind picked them up and threw them to their deaths. Others were pulverized by an inner fire and others in a great magical storm that had broiled up and wiped out many warriors.
Just before Alaric was about to orchestrate a crushing blow of energy across the field he felt a sudden resistance…a great force, cold, analytical, calculating; a great wall of conciseness, of power with no bound…a decaying evil that had slept long and awaited this moment. And suddenly he was thrown a dozen feet backward off his horse, whose neck was instantly snapped by the force of the wall of air that slammed into them.
Concentration broken, Alaric dazedly looked around. He could see his troops, the men whom had so bravely come along on this intrepid campaign being wiped out in great scores. A great dark wave of blackness, energy from the Twisting Nether swept the battlefield killing hundreds. Another great storm now intermingled with his own, creating a vast vessel of destruction. Lighting, blizzard, and more fell from the black skies.
You are the one. You shall die now. A voice exploded though his head, ripping though his conciousness like a knife through wet parchment.
Around him the land became a great vessel of destruction. The roots of the earth shot up in great spires of rock, fire rained from the sky, magic and bloodlust swept the field. Destruction reigned…
Alaric slowly pulled his mental might together and shielded his innermost thoughts from the Voice.
DIE It repeated.
A crushing pain coursed through his head as the Voice commanded his death. But in that moment a barrage of thought came upon Alaric; The city of Silvermoon, the grasses of Quel'thalas, the forests of the realm, the great Elfgates.
"NOO!" he shouted back, forcing the vile precense from his mind. And suddenly he was awake again, noticing the cold on his back from the snow.
Alaric, slowly getting up noticed that Dethal was cut several times on the face, yet the wounds were superficial. Tanin was luckier, able to shield himself from the great blast of energy.
"It is the Litch King! He is using his own power combined with the stolen Vials against us!" Tanin shouted out.
"We must regain control of the battlefield now!" Alaric replied, voice hoarse and tired from his strenuous work of directing magic.
Across the field the Alliance was in chaos, confused and out of order from the sudden out-of-thin-air attacks that had assailed them. But the Scourge pushed in on that caving, and began to take ground.
"We must use the magics against him! Or at least nullify him enough for us to push on!" Alaric shouted out once again as both Dethal and Tanin Firestar set up behind him to start channeling again.
Once again the feeling of feeling of the pure power from the magic came upon him. And so the battle continued…
The Plains of Drath'rakker, center of the battle
Arrius the Pure, High Paladin of the Order of the Silver Hand swung his might warhammer over his head, crushing the feeble skeleton that had stood up to him.
"AT EM'!" he shouted again, and a new surge of armor clad warriors rushed up behind him. What was called the Plains of Drath'rakker here had become the center of the battle, the two titanic forces throwing their weight against each other.
Arrius knew though that the battle was slowly being lost. Slowly the lines were being unraveled into a chaotic mass of no order. Soon order would cease to exist and the lines would fall apart.
Hundreds, if not thousands had died this day. Swinging around Arrius sliced three legs off a nerubian spider swarmer, which hobbled around in pain, trying to get its balance back. Before it could, Arrius took his warhammer, Verigan's Fist, and smashed it down on the overgrown insect's puny head, splattering green ichor all over himself and the bloody snow.
"Make way! Make way! Pull the Lord back from battle!" shouts arose. Suddenly Arrius felt the arms of his men pulling him away from the battle.
"How dare you…!" he thought, angered that they would not allow him to lead them.
A bloodied and bandaged footman appeared before Arrius in a break in the fighting.
"Milord, the reserves, Lieutentant Aman's men, have engaged a force of Night Elves!"
Arrius stared blankly into his face as the sound of battle erupted on the far side of the battlefield…
The Plains of Drath'rakker
This was it. Sweet, exquisite revenge. Barak Demonlasher had been following the heathen Highborne that had identified himself as Alaric'Quel for months now. He been charged with tracking, and killing if necessary, the rouge Highborne whom had stolen several phials full of the most sacred and dangerous Waters of Eternity.
He had fought this Alaric upon Mt. Hyjal, only to be humiliated and defeated. He had then followed to the toxic plagueland of Lordaeron, a shattered place of great sadness. When he tried to commune with nature, he barely felt any answer at all showing of just how ravaged the region was.
There he had found his quarry, and nearly destroyed the feeble army that followed him, yet it seemed the arrogant Highborne was more than a match for his tactical prowess, leaving behind a large portion of his force in order for the greater whole to escape. And again the smaller diversionary force left behind slipped through his fingers, leaving him with only a scant trail of where to track this Alaric.
But along the way the diversionary Alliance force had continued to attack his forces on small scale raids and skirmishes, greatly slowing him down. And thus was why it had taken him so long to finally reach the Highborne aggressor once again.
He looked upon the battlefield, his forces, nearly twenty thousand Sentinels, backed up with druids, and such made up his primary attack group. A smaller force had been sent to flank the Alliance, but his main group would make a head on assault on the Undead, and then turn swiftly to meet the Alliance head on where they would be sandwiched between the flanking force and his own main group.
And so he let loose the dogs of war with a mighty blow of the Horn of Cenarius, the ancient wood pipe bellowing through the battlefield like it had back on Lordaeorn. Though this time he would not attack both enemies at once, no. This time he would use better tactics, and destroy one enemy before and pounce on the last one before they could react; and so the Army of the Night was on the move again, this time, aiming for total victory.
Now a third force had been added to the battle, once again tipping the scales. As Barak Demonlasher looked on, praying on the Mother Moon of Elune to keep safe her followers, the three armies clashed on the frozen plains of Northrend…
(Sorry it took me so long to get that chapter up guys, I've been doing a lot of school work lately, with projects and such. Well, keep reading as the story reaches its climax in the next chapter!)