Chapter 22: High Tide
Center of the Battlefield
The battle hung in the balance…from the east lay the vast innumerable forces of the Undead Scourge. To the west were set the army of the Grand Alliance, and to the south a smaller group of Night Elven sentinels.
Alaric knew this, but at the moment could do nothing. For hours he had been in his self induced half-trance in order to preserve energy while still fighting off the powers of the Litch King.
The magical storm above was where he and the Litch King's powers had met in a furious magical battle. In the clouds above great gushes of energy and forks of lightning danced about in a fanciful fashion before clashing and exploding in impossible blasts of energy. When they met, the clouds parted, giving all a full view of the battle, if only for the briefest moment.
The sensation…the power that roiled though him through these Waters was unlike anything ever experienced in this world; in all his many years.
Yet somehow every move he jabbed the opposing force seemed to be able to counter and turn on him. He could sense that Tanis and Dethal were near breaking point, as all their energy had been channeled into him. Soon, they would be on the verge of consuming the last of their life energies, which Alaric did not want to happen, for his friendship to the two and his need of their powers later.
So much had transpired, and so close they were to ultimate victory; they could not give in now. The army was under the command of Jonathan Marcus of Stormwind, a capable commander, yet more accustomed to defending cities than leading armies though an open field of battle.
Against the vast wall of power that was aligned against him, Alaric finally saw a gap; an opening in which he could attack and for a while cast a spell of silence to slow the Litch King's progress and at least for a little while keep him from casting spells on such a large scale. He knew this was the only chance he would ever get, for a being as powerful as Ner'zhul never made the same mistake twice, and even rarer never made a mistake at all.
And Alaric took the chance, throwing all he had into the gap in his opponent's impossibly thick mental armor. His attack penetrated the wall, and he unleashed the Spells of Silence upon his enemy, which for a while resisted, but fell prey to the ultimate powers of the Waters of Eternity.
And in a snap Alaric awoke. Behind him Dethal and Tanis also suddenly shot their eyes open, and then slooped over off their mounts in pure exhaustion. Alaric too was tired, but not so much as the ones whom had been feeding him energy for hours. Immediately the two clerics whom had stayed by Tanis' side through the whole ordeal began their healing process. Alaric nodded, and swiftly turned away, tired as he was, but still invigorated with the powers of the Waters.
Suddenly, a dragonhawk squawked and beated its wings down toward him from above. The dragonhawk's mounted master was none other than the resistance fighter that he had met up with before the army had attacked the ruins of Lordaeron's former capital.
"My lord, the Undead are being pushed back! Our forces are strangulating the center of their line as we advance!" the courier quickly said, giving an assessment of the situation "Yet the blasted black Elves are digging into the Undead flank, and seem to be on a collision course with our tired and drained men. General Jonathan wishes for what orders to proceed on next"
"Tell him to engage the Undead with prejudice, but leave the Night Elves to me" Alaric replied, seeing the vast plethora of combat in front of him. The great battle was raging over such a vast amount of land that the Alliance and Kaldorei armies were having trouble coordinating. The Undead of course, were under a unified single command, so they still retained a great amount of coordination, even if they were getting crushed between the two opposing forces.
Alaric then eyed the force of Night Elves with suspicion at first, then recognition. This was the same force that had so masterfully assaulted his flank in Lordaeron, and which he had fought at the peak of Mount Hyjal.
"They are still of use to me…" Alaric said, slowly pondering "Our numbers thin daily and there are no reinforcements…if we can ally ourselves, even if temporarily with this cursed Moon Stalkers than we could possibly make it to Icecrown with enough of an effective force to lay siege to it. And also they would prove invaluable with their strange nature magics if I combined them with the great eternal power of the Waters of Eternity…if they could listen to what I have to offer them…" He quickly plucked a Scroll of Teleportation from his waist-belt, and began reading its contents, reaching out to the Light and a one of the seven Vials of Illidan which hung also around his belt. The remaining three he had left in the keeping of Tanis and Dethal.
After Eolas's grand betrayal, Alaric had found it difficult to trust others, even those of his own kin. And so he had kept this single vial, the largest of them all, close to him, just in case.
And so Alaric formulated his plans to unite two groups which had been separated for 9,000 years; if only until the end of this madness…
Night Elven Frontal Command
Barak Demonlasher looked on as his deployed forces continued their dig into the Undead's forces. Losses were grievous, and the few druids they had brought along were physically and mentally exhausted already.
He had already underestimated the strength of the Scourge's forces. They had not been so easy to break as they had been on the mainland of that cursed dead continent that the human prisoners so aptly named "Lordaeron".
If the battle continued much longer, the very position he was standing on would become untenable and the fight against the Alliance would never prevail, weakened as they were.
Yet…his command was simple. Seek out the one whom defiled the World Tree's ruins, and retrieve the Vials that had been so stolen; and also to kill those who got in the way.
The Cenaurian Circle had told him, and stressed to him, upon the point of the High Elven race. Of their true origins and beliefs. All Night Elves knew that the sad schism between their people had driven the Highborne of Azshara across the sea. From there, details grew hazy, but thousands of years later they once again melded into place.
It seemed that once the Highborne, then calling themselves High Elves, had used the magic of their greatest sorcerers to create the magical cauldron of intense energies that became known as the Sunwell. By then, the so called High Elves had abandoned the guiding path of Elune for the travesty of what the humans called the Holy Light.
Once the Scourge destroyed their homeland and the Sunwell, which had fed the High Elves their intensely needed magics, most of those surviving High Elves renamed themselves Blood Elves, in some kind of homage to their fallen countrymen. The Blood Elves had lived in a constant state of depravation of magic; it seemed that their greatest power was also their greatest enemy. They lived to avenge their people and fallen nation, yet constantly suffering; the great maw that used to be filled with the Sunwell's most pleasing energies opened wide in their bodies.
And so it seemed that those few Blood Elves themselves would perish if not the last direct descendant of the High Elven King, Prince Kael'Thas, had led most of his people through a mysterious portal, possibly in chase of new magical powers.
Those that remained, whom were unable to follow Kael'thas had languished without the powers of the Sunwell. With their one true leader gone, they began to break apart, especially since the Alliance had outsted them from their ranks. Yet, a new generation of High Elven lords it seemed was able to gather up the remnants of the Blood Elf people.
This, Alaric'Quel, of a noble House with royal blood flowing through his veins, and Dethal Lightflame and Eolas Daggerthorn, also nobles of whom had been in attendance with the Silvermoon Convocation had managed the regather the last of their kind and whipped it up into an elite, albeit small, fighting force.
Though not officially of the Alliance, they somehow were able to procure a large number of human, and dwarven troops, formerly of the Alliance, into the force that had raged across Ashenvale and southern Kalimdor those months before.
The day had passed, and dusk was beginning to set in. The fighting would slow for the night as the Alliance would pull its ranks back for a rest. But what of his men? Night was when they were strongest. Yet not strong enough under their current condition.
There were few options left to him now. Push the attack, and somehow crack the Alliance's frontlines, or pull back, rest and regroup, and manage to attack again at a later time.
Yet…even though he understood the dire fact that this Highborne was carrying with him the very powers that had first brought the Legion to Azeroth, he knew that this certain one, even though he personally hated him for his humiliating defeat on Hyjal, was somehow doing something right. He had managed to shield the powers from the Legion, and seemed to be using his burden responsibly.
"Damnation" Barak muttered, his mind muddled, not getting his sleep in days.
From directly in front of him, the ground began to tremor slightly, and luminesant, pure white runes began to spiral in a circle. Before his very eyes, the Highborne that had caused the whole debacle appeared! The guards around him immediately turned their weapons on the interloper, whom in turn threw a hand into the air calling upon the energies of arcane magic to freeze the guards in their place and seal their mouths.
Instinctively Barak's tanned violet hand swept directly to his scythe-blade which pointed directly at the Insurrectionist's red plated chest piece. But the Highborne held up his hand in a gesture of peace, and slowly approached.
"Why do you enter my camp if not for battle?" Barak stuttered, choking on his unhidden anger.
"Why, if not for war than for peace? You know today you led this force here, and only now has it become apparent that your foolish deployments will destroy you and your men. It seems that I too am in quite the same paradox. For two days we have been fighting quite the force of Undead, but until now they had tricked us with a smaller force of theirs. Now it seems that unless we coordinate together that both our forces will be destroyed. For the sake of not just this battle, but for that of the world I beg of you to consider an alliance, if only temporary!" Alaric said, now his voice peaking in desperation.
Barak could feel the disgusting arcane energy that the traitorous Highborne so wielded. Feeling its vile presence he nearly lashed out at this Alaric, but his higher senses held him back.
He knew what this one was saying was true. If the Undead, perhaps the greatest threat to the world other than the Highborne himself, were to defeat his force than there would be nothing to stop this madman.
"You wield the powers of Nordrassil! You stole the energy of the Well of Eternity, the loathsome scion that led to all the wars these past ten thousand years! You must be stopped!" Barak barked back.
"I…never intended to do evil with these Waters. Though I knew that the Night Elves would ever allow me to procure even a single Vial for my plans. What I did had to be done to save this world from the Undead and give Quel'thalas it's rebirth" the Insurrectionist then said, voice dipping in sadness. He quickly recounted his story and plans to Barak.
Barak's muscles twitched as he listened, doubt beginning to gnaw at his beliefs of the Highborne's utter evil. He had misjudged the Highborne, but even so, he was still a grave threat, one to be destroyed as soon as possible. He still felt a burning desire to avenge his honor, but that had no place on a battlefield such as this one. No matter how light hearted this Alaric's intentions were, the power he held in his hands could as quickly corrupt him or call back the Burning Legion.
Slowly Barak Demonlasher nodded, his own ends forming in his mind. He could ally with the Insurrectionist for now, but when the time came, he had to be destroyed. And then his vengeance would come as well, even though that had taken a second place to the heat of the moment.
"An enemy of mine enemy is a friend; for now Alaric'Quel, we shall ally, but know that I do not support this at all. The very notion of it makes me feel like killing myself! This shall not last!"
The red-garbed Blood Elf also nodded, the blue glow in his eyes tinting.
On the battlefield
Genn Blackswift cut down through the air with his broadsword which cracked upon the skull of a skeletal minion. Tears flowed down his face as he did so, knowing that his regiment had been shattered beyond all repair. Nearly all his men were gone, dead forever or turned into mindless zombies.
His force had been cut off from the rest of the army, and had slowly been encircled. Now, only he, the dwarf Belgarlan, and a dozen others fought in a desperate back-to-back circle.
Images of his past flew by his eyes. His childhood in Stromgarde, watching the Horde pillage and destroy the peaceful hamlets of the fatherland. His teenage years as he worked his apprenticeship in a smithy shop on the outskirts of Tyr's Hand. To the utter exhilaration he felt when getting his first promotion in the army against a marauding group of orcs.
But it came and went to quickly, only to be replaced with the ghastly faces of those that the Litch King called his servants.
"A good day to die!" Belgarlan shouted out as he threw a stormhammer, his last one, at a nerubian whom had appeared out of one of the subterranean tunnels. The dwarf seemed to enjoy the thought of a death in battle, his grudges now released, and ancestors welcoming him to them.
Genn was amazed at the dwarf's tenacity to still fight though. He could see the shaft of a pike sticking out from the stocky being's shoulder, and several deep cuts on the bearded, grim encrusted face.
As the dwarf said, it was the end today. He accepted reality, and brought his sword up once again, throwing his iron shield to the side. Twirling, he swiftly sliced the skulls off of two more ghouls before hearing a strange noise.
It was the same noise that he had heard before the damnable dark elf charge at the flank of his line back when they had engaged the army of Kel'thuzad in the Tirisfal Glades.
Damnation! He knew it! Should have known it! Those blasted dark elves were still following them, hunting them down!
Confusion spread across the frontlines of the Scourge as they witnessed the joining of the Night Elven and Alliance forces. In a vital push, the Sentinel Army and the Alliance Forces had thrown back the armies of the Scourge, weakened by the Spell of Silence put on their master.
Genn saw from behind a wall of northern undead beasts a quick movement. The same as he had seen in Ashenvale forest before the dark elf attack there. Suddenly, a cacophony of roars and battle cries raised in the air as the Night Elf army began to rush upon the forces that had so surrounded his men and him.
He and his men raised their weapons, and prepared for the end, but then a single shout permeated the air.
"Ish'nu dal dieb! We come as allies in the hour of battle, not enemies!"
The creatures that called themselves Night Elves, whom he himself personally preferred dark Elves, began to rush around his men, but not into them, killing the undead beasts and joining their battle.
In seconds the rush was over and a wave of mysterious, beautiful, armored, panther mounted Night Elven women past by continuing the charge. Genn and his few men remaining stood atop the corpses of the undead, watching the spectacle of the Night Elven force battling back the plague-ridden Undead.
With excitement and new life rising up in him, Genn rushed toward the wall of undead that was not beginning to fall back.
Scourge Frontlines
Eolas stood in silence as he witnessed the attack on his flank. It was so damned familiar. Those blasted Night Elves again with their surprise attacks. It mattered not though. Behind him lay an unending force of undead servants willing to obey his commands.
"You may have the upper hand for the moment Alaric…but against the might that is the Litch King you cannot resist!" he shouted out.
He had been particularly disturbed by the silence of the Litch King for the past few hours, but had resolved that the great Lord had his mind elsewhere. For now the battle was over it seemed. Eolas used his incredible phycic powers so generously given to him by the Litch King to back his forces down, to slowly regroup them.
After a day or two they would be ready to fight again. Confident, Eolas backed away from the battle.
Central Northrend
It had been two days since the Night Elven and Alliance forces joined together. Their combined might threw back the undead for a while, but they had regrouped and presented themselves as a brick wall once again.
The first few days of fighting had taken a terrifying toll on the Alliance army, over a quarter of its men wounded, dead, or missing. Those that were missing were automatically presumed to be reanimated as ghouls by necromancers, sad as the thought was, but true in proven history.
The actual number was more than ten thousand gone from the ranks. For Barak's forces, the actual number of casualties had been less, but in percentage it had been nearly the same. Five thousand in twenty of their number were gone.
And so their alliance, tenuous at best, continued onward, and once again prepared for battle anew against their enemy whom had regrouped.
Alliance Base Camp
Alaric had not foreseen into the future enough. The toll on Dethal and Tanin had been near death, their strength still not recovered. Both men lay near death for the first day in the field hospital, and only now were barely able to speak.
Without at least those two powerful spell casters, the only he could spare at the moment, to back him up, trying to delve into the powers of the Waters even with the Book of Medivh would prove fatal as the vast energy would overwhelm his psyche and throw him into the already overcrowded field hospitals. So many that had not succumbed to the wounds of battle had already complained of frostbite and malnutrition, some things of which the Clerics and priests of the Light could fix. But there were also those Blood Elves that followed him that had become obsessed with demonic magics, having had a taste for their power. Even though he had shown him the light of the Waters of Eternity, many in a growing sect still bided with the darker magics of the Great Beyond; something he intended to stop once this war was over.
And so with great reluctance to the parting of the so nourishing powers of the Waters, he once again encased them in their magically enchanted chest.
He had deployed his forces in accordance and coordination with the Night Elf Barak Demonlasher, and hoped that this push would be enough to get them to Icecrown Glacier, which drew ever closer. Just beyond this final plain lay the most intricate fortifications in Northrend; the great Fortress of Icecrown would try to break this army, but it would only be broken by this most glorious of forces.
Already he could see the shorebirds of Northrend venturing inland, many times as a premonition to the insidious attacks by the fearsome gargoyles.
Just a mile and a half from their current position lay the forces of the Undead Scourge. Alaric knew that this would be the hardest fight he had ever seen. The innumerable forces of the Scourge had been gathered up as far as southern Lordaeron to protect their master.
His thoughts shifted to a new line of thought as he fingered the one Vial he had decided to keep next to him and watched his forces begin their march forward. Soon they would meet the Scourge's lines, and once again hell would break loose.
The Spell of Silence Alaric had just barely managed to put on the Litch King had been able to weaken his magical output enough to stop him from using the Waters, but that was only when Alaric had been attuned to several Vials at once.
His entire Mage corps slowly trotted forward on their white stallions, his intent to use them to create havoc among the undead long enough to force another breakthrough. There were about twenty three mages left from the battle yesterday. They and their few hundred troops had formed the greatest bulk of resistance during the week's battles. Alaric sincerely hoped that twenty three mages would be enough to complete the strategy on which he had based himself using the power of the Waters.
They had traversed many miles already, the men tired from the long marches and the battles. But they were nearly within sight of their target. Just beyond the horizon lay Icecrown Glacier, its deadly frozen waters home to the Lord of the Undead.
To the south lay the vast field of ice and snow, under which countless of the undead spiders called 'nerubians' poured out of the vast subterranean colonies that they had managed somehow to dig out under Northrend. At their western flank, the frontlines, a seemingly endless coherent army of the Scourge. To reach Icecrown their far smaller force would have to cut a bloody swath through the Scourge's army and lay siege to the dangerous, ever changing glacier.
The tenuous pact with Barak's Night Elves still held, though it grew more tenuous with each passing moment. Alaric knew that in a few days the pact they had made would begin to fall apart due to their own internal doings. It was hard to coordinate or understand with the Night Elves, seeing as their different language, culture, and even way of thinking. Due to these things and the political tensions, it was clear things would evaporate within the next two week or so. And thus they had to break through the lines of the Scourge as soon as possible. Once again, time was their enemy.
And so they would push on. From the front Alaric began to hear the first signs of battle. Riding up past the field hospitals, the catapult and ballistae crews, and men waiting in reserve, Alaric made his way to the back of the battle line which were beginning to form.
The skirmishers had already begun their fighting out front of the battle, their thin line brandishing javelins and bows, getting a feel for the line of the Scourge. It seemed that the undead had placed its main infantry, ghoul grunts, and skeleton warriors, the usual riffraff of undead humans, elves, nerubians, and extra-dimensional entities such as the occasional summoned Infernal. On the flanks where the mountains cut the Scourge into pieces were placed the bulky abominations, their tanking units made of the corpses of dozens of corpses and also undead Ogres, something which had not been seen on the battlefields of Lordaeron, to blunt cavalry attacks on the flank. Scattered about the lines were necromancers, the damned men who had sold their souls to the Litch King in promise of eternal paradise in death, prepared to lift the dead from their fallen positions and bring them into the Litch King's most heathen domination.
A pale faced human stood next to him, awaiting the order for the artillery barrage. Once again it had begun to snow, a premonition of the ice power of the Litches gathering for their assault.
But since the two powers capable of harnessing the powers of the Waters down for the count, Alaric had brought up his Mage Corps, a remnant of one of the defense forces of Dalaran, to use their superior magical skills to wreak havoc within the armies intended path. They were also invaluable in their transporting of supplies from the navy's anchorage in Daggerfall Bay. It was they who would be needed if the army was to suffer all out defeat and had to retreat off the battlefield. They had enough power, along with the ambient magic of the land, to transport large segments of the army back to Daggerfall.
"Ah, the O Magnus, the Blood Mage greets us at last…" sneered Karl Wolfsteine, the old sod of a wizard. Yet one of the most powerful Alaric had. "The mages and I have created an act of attack across an axis we think might bring the most powerful ley of energies against the strongest columns of the enemy" he ended, seemingly proud of his work.
Alaric studied the parchment Wolfsteine handed him briefly, and shook his head. "The alignment of your magics is off. Do you remember nothing of your school of wizardry?" Alaric inquired.
The old wizard and several of his accomplices scrunched up their faces in anger, and with clenching hands were able to keep from biting back in retaliation for the verbal assault.
"What would you propose we do, oh great one?" Wolfsteine asked in sarcastic tone.
"Time is of the essence. The troops advance soon. I want an all out push with your energies against this area here" he said, pointing to the dark smudges on the parchment indicating the large force of necromancers at the end of their lines. "And-use the correct axis this time, please?" Alaric said, having his own fun at snipping at the old crotchety wizard.
Once they had cleared the first lines of the enemy the army would move en echelon, the flanks bending backwards slightly to form a semi-triangle so that they could move past the enemy without having to worry about being flanked every second of the march.
He looked down to the human boy, who suddenly snapped to attention. "Tell them it is time. They may fire when ready" he announced, his voice cutting through what seemed the misery of this damnable land. The lad ran off to deliver his message. Around the bend of a small hill the officer in charge of the first batteries nodded to himself, and let loose the first volley.
And so the final battle on Northrend began. All together two hundred catapults and ballistae fired off their deadly cargo. They were joined by the dozen steam tanks and mortar teams manned by the ingenious dwarves to create the greatest barrage of death that had been seen since the Third Great War.
The archers then advanced in their long lines, raised bows together, and fired their thousands of projectiles into the air, darkening the already eternally-blotted Northrend sky.
Alaric quickly rode up to the Mage Corps, its soldiers shifting uncomfortably in the deepening snow. In the time he had led troops this past year, in the time he had taken it upon himself to gather the bastions of might left in the world and remake the Alliance, in all this time he had led troops such as these; battered, worn, tired, damaged equipment, dirty, unshaven and more.
There had never been any troops, except perhaps those whom had traveled those many hundreds of miles to the battlefield from Stormwind, that were clean, spit-and-shine, and polished. He had never truly commanded 'fresh' troops; nearly always veterans of some sort or another. These were men he knew he could count on; they were the apex of the Alliance's fighting machine.
The Alliance, eh?; a group of nations and peoples thrown together during their darkest hours to form a military coalition against an enemy of superior odds. Now that sounded much akin to what he saw before him today. And in that, he took heart, knowing that he, along with all those with him, would never allow this blighting dark to cover the world in ash and sorrow as it had their nations. Now was the time to fight, and this was their high tide.
It took five minutes for the mages to be prepared and in their utmost readiness for battle. With their conjuring staffs, the mages, with specialization in all different kinds of fields of magic, began their spells.
Great sheets and torrents of ice and freezing rain, giant hailstones, and more began to fall from the sky. The Blood Elf mages, more adept with the fiery side of magic, brought forth elemental fire and controlled balls of pure flame.
"My friend…we have need of your pristine powers once again" Alaric called out to the ground, feeling the world's flame arising to help him in this endeavor. Near the frontline of the Scourge cracks and tremors began to appear in and on the ground. Flames licked out of the fissures, and suddenly a massive pillar of fire burst out to unveil a fire elemental phoenix.
"Go my friend, destroy our enemies!" Alaric bid the phoenix, the magical creature always there when he needed it; and so the phoenix took to air as well, flying down on the Scourge's lines embellishing them with a seemingly draconic fire.
In seconds the pristine order of the Scourge's lines was shattered. Left and right they fell, one suddenly polymorphed into a sheep, another instantly incinerated from within. Already the sky filled with Bludstone's gryphon warriors, now perhaps more adept at fighting the frost wyrms of the Scourge than the red and black Dragons of the Second War.
The magical onslaught, amazing artillery and archery barrages seemed to open a gap for the Alliance troops, just as Alaric had planned.
He held up his mysterious, unnamed rune blade in a fashion parallel to the horizon. In a rasping voice, he shouted out "MEN OF THE ALLIANCE! NOW IS THE HOUR! FIGHT! FIGHT! FOR COUNTRY! FOR HONOR! FOR YOUR WIVES, CHILDREN, FAMILIES! FIGHT!"
The cries resonated across the empty fields and desolates of Northrend, shaking the earth as they began their advance.
Icereaper Encampment
Even Eolas Deathweaver had a feeling of dread as he heard, and felt the vibrations of the advancing columns of Alliance soldiers. Their chant filled the air with the intensity of something he had not felt in a long time.
Nevertheless, his glorious Lord urged him onward, feeding him more and more of his nutritious magics. The Litches had assembled, prepared to unleash their storm of ice powers upon the Alliance.
Scattered about the lines were various Death Knights commanding the troops, riding back and forth awaiting the Alliance attack.
Though to Eolas, the actual attack did not seem to bother him that much. It was the fact that to the south a large force of Night Elves, the same ones that had charged him earlier on that week, were marauding around, and strangely enough NOT attacking his former friend's army. Perhaps in some strange turn of events they had ended up allied to one another.
From behind, the great roaring noise filled the skies. Rising from just beyond his sight a great armada of frost wyrms and gargoyles flapped into the sky. The air had become a mangled, bloody, clash of two titans as the Alliances dragonhawks and gryphon riders met head on with the massive wyrms and nimble gargoyles who disappeared and then reappeared in the black clouds above.
Then came the unbelievable assault of magic and artillery that utterly crushed his frontlines. In seconds thousands of his best warriors, many whom had been magically enchanted to fight harder, were blasted into oblivion by the intense attack on them.
He sensed that in this time the Night Elven force also began attacking several miles southward in an attempt to cut off parts of the Scourge from the rest of the main body.
Eolas decided to let those in command in those areas to handle their own problems. For now, he directed the movement of a legion, fully 30,000 warriors into the gap.
The Alliance's frontal elements began to advance, soon to meet his own. A Litch, one of a considerably lower status, that held the menial task of commanding troops on the battlefield, tromped up to him to give his report. These Lesser Litches, also known as Lych Draugers, or simply "Reavers" as they were more commonly known by the Death Knight caste were a laughable joke. Unwillingly forced back to life, these former generals and mages were once great practitioners of their art, whether it be war or magic. The Litch King had pressed them into his command, and allowed them to retain some sense of individuality and memory so that they might think 'creatively' on the battlefields yet had twisted and wrenched their minds enough so that they would always think of him as their first priority.
"Lord, the Warrior Legion is proceeding forward to meet the Alliance. Give me a contingent of abominations and I can break them for good and send them running!" the rotting Reaver said vehemently, his twisted and clouded memory not truly remembering his heritage in the Alliance.
"You shall get what I give you Reaver. To argue with me is the argue with the will of the Litch King" Eolas replied coolly.
"You are not so much as his chosen yet young Death Knight! Give me even thirty abominations and I will make sure that Alliance line never gets past where it is now!" the Reaver-Captain nearly screamed in protest.
"Get back in your line. I believe the Litch King granted you too much freedom of thought foolish little Reaver?" Eolas said with annoyance hopping into his voice.
"And if I refuse?" In less than an instant the Reaver's body fell in half, its phylactery (the magical receptacle that holds a Litch's spirit or essence) falling out of its rotting body only to be crushed under Eolas's heavy boot.
"Fool…" he muttered, and personally took control of the insolent Drow's troops.
"To battle!" he cried out, raising Defiler high over his own head.
The legion of minions that had been brought up began its charge, head on into the missile and magical attack.
The first lines were decimated in seconds, but the sheer will to force the Litch King and a converging force of necromancers kept at least part of the force aloft whilst the main Alliance infantry columns closed in on the position. As the enemy's troops made their way closer and closer, within a scant few hundred yards now, the magical and artillery barrage ceased or pushed farther or away from the main axis of attack.
The blasted phoenix was still a problem though, raging up and down his lines incinerating many of his troops beyond use. Telepathically Eolas called in reinforcements.
From the ariel battle above three frost wyrms broke their attack and veered downwards toward the raging phoenix. In a flurry, and somewhat a beautiful air ballet, the four beasts of either frost or fire twirled around each other, shooting jets of their specific element.
The phoenix, noticing it had the wyrms on its tail dove downwards and swept its way into a 360 degree circle, quickly coming up behind his opponents. With a jet of flame one of the wyrm's wings quickly incinerated, the ashy remnants of it falling behind it in a large smoke cloud. That wyrm quickly crashed, but as it did the other wyrms turned to face their enemy. In a plethora of fire and ice the three remaining air combatants seemed to eliminate themselves, their remains falling to the frozen ground.
And so over a small patch of ice that was the first signs of the Icecrown Glacier, the two armies met again, for the last time. Thousands of warriors all hacking and slashing, crying oaths and curses, throwing daggers or staves, the chaos of a battle engulfing them all.
Eolas watched the battle progress from his tall rock, situated near the middle of the army. For miles beyond and behind him the Scourge stretched, yet in many places it was broken by small mountains or terrain, or simply separated for strategic formations and purposes. In all the Scourge's forces in the area had been split into groups, Northern Army, Southern Army, South-Eastern Army, Center Army and the Icecrown Vanguard each commanded by the Lord Death Knights under the near-direct control of the Litch King.
He had been given command of the center of the line, the very heart of the battle. Under his command were over sixty thousand warriors, all thirsting for blood and battle. Noticing that on his flanks a large mass of cavalry were preparing to flank him, he ordered a group of his reserve abominations into line to blunt the attack.
And in seconds the attack was over. The cavalry charge had been slaughtered, leaving behind dozens of their own wounded and dead. In turn, Eolas ordered out a group of felsteed mounted raiders as his own feint cavalry attack.
His felsteed's, commanded by a underling Reaver, engaged heavy resistance against the Alliance's front and left. A Reaver came up to him to report from the front "My Lord, the forces you wished have been allocated and prepared. Our surprise attack is ready…" the Reaver ended with a smile.
Behind the frontlines Eolas had accumulated two hundred abominations, an array of meat wagons, thousands of ghouls, and more.
"Order them in" he said quietly, returning the sadistic smile. Soon he would feel his old friend's throat in his hand, weeping for mercy.
Along the front thousands of his main warriors were fighting. Slowly, he brought more and more force on their flanks, which now bent en echelon. The extra pressure on the flanks would allow him to push harder with his allocated force onto their front line.
Smiling once again at the thought of personally strangling the life out of his former comrades, he set once again to battle.
Mage Corps Staging Area
Alaric surveyed the attack. Across his flanks the undead were pressuring him, almost begging him to send his reserves over there. But oh no, he had other plans for them.
Across the entire front he would push with the reserves into the main line of the Scourge and attempt to force them back, or even turn the lines. He himself would lead the charge atop his mount followed by the surviving cavalry from the devastating flanking assault.
In less than fifteen minutes, or what seemed like an eternity, the forces were ready to go. He quickly departed from the Mage Corps, which had its eye set on another portion of the enemy's forces, their magical onslaught serving the Alliance well.
Alaric quickly mounted up and watched as the lines parted for their attack. Along the line he heard the call to forward march, and double time, and soon enough the attack was underway.
They quickly pushed their way into the main battle, the chaos ensuing his attack, dissolving the neat squares of men into a mob of soldiers rushing forward. Nearly in the instant he entered the battle a pike struck through the neck and spine of his mount, throwing him a few feet. He quickly cast a sheet of round flame runes around him, which exploded any time an undead crossed its path.
Recovering quickly he thrust himself back into battle, swinging his blade against his enemy's rotting exteriors.
Though, he felt the profound existence of something he once knew somewhere around the battle, as if the essence of an old acquaintance had visited him in the form of a neatherghost.
As his men and he pushed inwards on the Scourge's line it became even more chaotic, dust, snow, and a bloody mist rising into the air.
Suddenly, he realized: Eolas…the damnable traitor that very nearly destroyed the entire plan he had formulated for years.
Anger rising, a fiery cloud enveloped Alaric, though its elemental nature not harming him, but only those around. Great green flames seared out of his eyes as he realized his former comrade was on the field, commanding the enemy's forces!
How far could his friend's travesty go? How deep were the chasms of his betrayal? Alaric resolved in his anger to end his former friend's evil deeds. Grasping the pike of a hapless undead minion that he had slashed to pieces with this rune blade, Alaric began running with his victorious men who seemed to be pushing back the Scourge.
Rage consumed Alaric. He opened his mouth the an endless curse, screaming his lungs dry of air. He rushed up the hill where he sensed the creatures disgusting feel, surrounded by a pack of his men. Many of them were cut down as they raced with him. To the left he saw a force the cavalry rush inwards to meet a solid line of Scourge troops, comleted with many abominations.
Closer…closer…soon he would end the circle of betrayal.
Scourge Center Army Base Command
Eolas looked on in terror as the huge force of the Alliance smashing into his lines, its magic wielders eliminating much of the force he had intended to eliminate the Alliance's center. On the field he could sense the old feeling of his former brother in arms Alaric'Quel, and was he in a rage; blood-lusted beyond thinking it seemed even.
With his telepathic powers he began to try and allocate more and more troops to his position yet they were too slow. The Alliance attack was heading straight up to his position!
He could already see the remnants of his center line floating toward him aimlessly lost as he and the other Reavers had lost their grip on them in the panic. Gathering his wits, he mushed his steed onward into the fray of the battle to see if his great presence could fix the wrongs.
Center of the battle
Left and right Alaric impaled the filthy undead creatures along the shaft of the iron pike he heaved in his arms. Behind him flew his magically weaved onyx black cape, torn in many places.
But his only goal now was the end the Betrayer's life. He could feel the presence of his old friend closing in on him quickly as the blur of action around him continued.
Suddenly, between enemies he saw his old friend, or what looked like him at least. Adorned in strange, black, plate armor of the Death Knights league, and carrying a large sword completed with glowing green runes on its blade, the Elf that once was Eolas was no more. His face was completely pale, like a the snow on the ground, paler even than that of the customary elven features. His long ears seemed to droop, one clipped off at the end perhaps to show his homage to his new lord, and hair so, so white. The eyes were what truly caught Alaric's sight. They were seemingly no longer there. The whites of his eyes had turned black as the magic he now wielded, and were filled with the emotions of darkness.
Alaric once again filled his lungs with air, and screamed out an eternal curse. The Death Knight caught sight of his target as well, and began his skeletal steed's charge, laying his sword down in a slashing fashion. He fired two bolts of green energy, seemingly led by a green energy ball in the shape of a skull. One at a helpless footman in front of him, which quickly ate the man's life energies away and tearing at his body leaving a gory pile of flesh and metal plating; the other at Alaric himself.
Alaric threw up his cape to protect himself, and felt the impact of the death bolt as it was absorbed by his specially crafted cape. Still charging, he lay the spear up, and prepared his final assault.
And so it was, comrade against comrade, Elf against Elf, the end of a friendship that had lasted as long as each could remember. With a scream, Alaric jabbed the spear into Eolas's black, corrupted heart. With a sudden gasp of air and the punch in his chest, Eolas was knocked off the demonic horse and thrown into the corpse of a dead abomination.
But Alaric, filled his blood lust, continued to push on, until nearly the entire shaft of the pike was in the abominations plague-filled corpse.
And so Alaric and Eolas stood less than a foot from each other. Alaric looked into the orbs of blackness that had become his friend's eyes, sadly shook his head and thrust the shaft farther, until his hands now touched Eolas's chest plates.
Eolas stood silent, mouthing words, some of hate, some pain, some sorrow, some perhaps even regrets. Slowly, his black eyes fell downward, and in one sudden final move threw his dark blade against Alaric, grazing the side of his face before his dying strength faltered and ended.
Alaric watched reverently as the one he once called his best friend fell away, into the Great Beyond. Even though all the crime his friend had committed, let loose a small prayer, sorrow filling him.
He broke his sadness by looking around, finally realizing the world around him. It seemed that his men had broken the Scourge's line here in the center. He still didn't know how Barak's army was holding out, but he was counting on the crafty Night Elf to hold the back of the army open so they could escape if it came to that and if the mages from the Mage Corps were destroyed or too exhausted.
Behind he noticed a grand force of cavalry approaching through the fog and snow. Alaric turned to see the forces of the army advancing facing nearly no fight along the front for several miles, but the flanks were heavily assailed. All too soon however another Death Knight would come to command the forces here. A still innumerable force grew out there, and next time he could not attempt another frontal attack as he had here.
It had cost him dearly he saw, looking on the swath they had cut through the Scourge's line. Hundreds, if not thousands of his warriors lay dead or wounded on the field.
The grand line of cavalry approached now, and Alaric spotted General Marcus Jonathan in his embroidered and fanciful armor, yet covered in a thin layer of battle grime.
"Lord General! Our flanks hold now, and the front has secured been secured, but the undead are reforming and will hit the front in minutes. We must reform out lines!" the graying man spoke out.
"Alas, what you say is true. Our front, though victorious, is shattered and broken. If it is not reformed soon I fear the army will be split down the middle" he reported in response. "Let the word be spread!" he shouted out, and immediately the General's runners were off, shouting the orders.
It took a few minutes to reform the lines but it did so in an orderly fashion, the veteran men well disciplined and knowing their maneuver. The Scourge's front, just overrun in the very center was soon refilled and assailing the Alliance's front and flanks again. The toll continued to take the lives of men, and especially when the Litches unleashed a powerful storm of ice and lightning along the reserve and supply lines of the army.
Yet the army was nearly upon Icecrown Glacier. And here was when the final battle would end. In the distance a light blue permeated the clouds, the magic of Icecrown filling the air around it. Along these ice plains, narrow valleys, and deadly steppes the Scourge had created Icecrown Fortress as it was now called in Alaric's command center.
Three miles of barricades, traps (both runic and regular), and more dotted the landscape which was filled with the Scourge's warriors.
"We must push on! Our goal lies just a few miles away. Dethal and Tanin are nearly recovered, and-" the senior ranking Cleric in the group was interrupted by a lesser brigadier general.
"But we cannot afford these fanciful tactics. Give the order for a full out charge! Our supply line is getting thinner and thinner as we continue to move west. We must make it to Icecrown soon, or else the men will start freezing from lack of firewood and starving from lack of food. The War must end now!"
The scene was not pretty in his command tent. The various generals argued vehemently over what they believed to be the best course of action. "Gentlemen, it is true we only have a few days of rations left, and also true that this truce with the Night Elves will hold only a little longer due to our political agendas. I agree, the War must end as soon as possible, yet an all out charge would do no good to us" Alaric spoke up, the first time in several minutes.
And the arguments started again.
Am I surrounded by children? He thought out to himself.
It took a little while to finally agree on the best plan of attack. With the Scourge's forces letting up for an the past two hours on the intensity of their attacks the men had been able to get much needed food and sleep. But the hardest, and last, part of the journey was about to begin.
By that nightfall, they were able to secure a path through the Scourge's forces, and had arrived on Icecrown Glacier. The high tide indeed as Alaric had described it.
The army would proceed now, unhindered by the flanks as it seemed now that the assailing undead army around them had pulled back to combine its forces with the Icecrown home guard troops.
Yes, there would be blood in the next few hours. In nearly a day the army had marched twenty five miles more, reaching the interior of Icecrown Glacier. The spell of silence Alaric had summoned onto the Litch King while in his power induced trance had nearly worn off, just as Tanin and Dethal were nearly recovered. Soon the battle between the two magic titans would begin again.
That morning, the Scourge's army was spotted again, pulled into a tight circle around a deadened forest that held many plateaus around it. Behind the spectacle was the damnable sight of Icecrown Tower, the very home and heart of the undead. It was there they were made, and there where they could be unmade.
Though they had fought ferociously in these past weeks, the proud army of forty thousand had been reduced greatly in number. Nearly half of their rank was gone, transported back to the navy for better keeping and care.
And here was where the hammer would fall the hardest. Alaric did not imagine this army would get out at all 'intact'. As it saddened him, he knew this army would have to be a sacrifice for him, Eolas, and Tanin to get close enough to destroy Icecrown Citadel.
He could see it already. In a few hours the army would set out, the leading elements engaging the forest and plateaus. The death toll would be horrendous. The army would lose all semblance of order as it became a mad fight against the Scourge.
But what had to be done had to be done. By the end of this day, the Scourge would be undone…
(I know that when I spell Lich I spell it as Litch with a T in the middle. That is my own signature way of spelling the word. I've had to say this because I've been getting some complaints about that lately. Other than that, enjoy the chapter and review plz!)