Chapter 23: The Hammer Falls
Outer Icecrown Fortress
Like nothing he had ever seen, the black mass spread before him. The Scourge; its forces greater than anything he had ever seen, including that of all its armies that had been seen. Now, its entire force had been put to the field. For leagues it stretched. Oh, how good today was to die!
The Duke Winfield raised his broad sword over his head, and in went his troops. Led by his meager cavalry force the final battle in Northrend began.
"For valor! For virtue! For Lordaeron! For your lands, your people!" he screamed out as the banners stretched gloriously under the sun. The golden L of Lordaeron, the Eye of the Violet Citadel, the Crimson Fist of Stromgarde, the Rune of Gilneas, Lion of Azeroth, the Anchor of Kul-Tiras, and even the Hawk of the Provisional Alterac Forces, and the respective colors of Ironforge, Aeire Peak, and Quel'thalas waved with their full colors under the dim skies, perched on lances and pikes of knights of whom had displayed the heads of their enemies.
With tactical mastery, the forces of the Alliance rushed into battle. Twenty five thousand men, elves, and dwarves, flew into the realm of war, with the zeal and strength of all those whom had fought before them.
The Duke lay his lance down as the front lines of the undead approached, and under the heavens he knew his name would forever be secured in the tomes of history for leading this last full charge. He placed his face-plate down, blinked once to moisturize his wind dried eyes, and braced his spear arm for the impact of his enemies.
"Yeeeahh!" he yelled out, voice commingling with that of thousands of others. And in the heat of battle, all was defined.
Company A, 45th Battalion
The fighting had spread out now, flattening out the lines of the advancing Alliance forces. Genn Blackswift had maneuvered the regiment into battle lines facing the Scourge's forces. He and his regiment were the very southernmost flank of the Army. Below them lay the smaller and less equipped forces of the Night Elves, of whom he and his men did not trust from their many battles with them.
Because of this distrust he help back Company C, with its thirty and eight men as a guard for his flank, or at least a sentinel for sudden betrayal.
The Dwarf, Belgarlan, and his fighters were perhaps some of the greatest warriors Genn had ever seen in his life. With ferocity and willingness to die they threw themselves into battle as the vanguard of the Battalion and regiment. The hearty dwarf also stocked quite a stash of ales in his 'powder kegs' as well, leading them to many drunken nights on this desolate wasteland.
But in the present, the undead had assailed and overrun the 2nd Regiment of the Battalion, every one of its soldiers dead. And thus his men had been pulled out of the reserve to fill the gap in the line.
Genn could see that in the fight that the army was beginning to come apart. As leaders were killed or wounded or separated from their units, individuals began to take over the strict chain of command of the Army. Slowly the semblance of order was melting away, yet Genn was struggling to keep intact what he could of his regiment, knowing that if he lost control there would be no taking it back.
"Captain, take your men to the right flank! The enemy's conjurers are attempting to breach out lines!" he yelled out to one of his captains.
On the right of his area of control he could see several enemy spellcasters throwing a heap of magical curses upon his troops, throwing them into confusion. The Captain and his men quickly dispatched the problem, but every time one was solved another was created.
From behind the fighting where the bodies littered the ground Genn noticed a courier making his way towards him.
"Commander of the Regiment! The Order is to advance! You are to push forward no matter your casualties, as orders directly from the Duke of the Corps himself!" he yelled out as he neared.
Insanity! Genn thought. Already many of his men were dead or wounded or afflicted to fighting. He could not simply give the orders to advance as if nothing were in front of him! Yet, he was to follow orders, as was the job of soldiers.
Just as he was about to acknowledge the message an arrow strung itself through the throat of the courier, who staggered and fell off his horse which went neighing madly out of the battle.
"All units forward!" he yelled out, hoping that this was all part of a greater scheme.
Forward 2nd Corps Headquarters
This was not a good day for General Marcus Jonathan. Every thing was against him this day; the weather, the terrain, numbers, and countless other things not to mention time as well. The first battle lines had deployed in normal fashion and engaged in normal fashion and that was where the similarities to the battles of the Second and Third Wars ended. After the 1st and 3rd Corps were committed to battle, his force was called upon to assault the northern portion of a large undead stronghold, defended by a vast army.
After a massive attack on the undead on the northern front by the Mage Corps via his request, he had cleared several of the entrenchments including the damned infernal ziggeraughts and a Necropolis, its bloated mass floating above the earth like some diseasing stigma would he had ordered the advance of his lead elements.
The result was a disaster. His forces were overrun by undead as they poured out of the canyon that ran beside his force, and he was barely able to stabilize the frontier by sacrificing two more regiments to escape the deathtrap. Now, at two thirds of his strength, he was ordered once again to advance, as all units had.
He looked on in horror at the battlefield, never experiencing anything like this before. It may not have been one of the massive battles from the Second War, or the slaughters of the Third War, but this was the most insane and intense battle he believed he could ever remember.
Magic flittered through the skies, as did dragonhawks, wyrms, gryphons, and gargoyals. On the ground the same went to magic. Conjured demons rampaged across the spread out battlefield and undead threw themselves at the walls he had made with his men.
This damned, mad fighting had taken the souls of his sons…his beautiful sons, Marcus Junior and Throtear, gone…yet, somehow he pulled himself together, out of the death of his sons in the Third War when they foolishly enlisted to aid in Lord Garithos's ill-fated counterattack against the Scouge and Burning Legion. He had to keep his Corps together…the idea suddenly sprung in his mind. As he witnessed the battle from his small elevated position he could see the command hierarchy beginning to unravel, the lines spreading out or bunching up, the undead pushing them everywhere.
It was here that the Army's momentum had stopped: clearly they could not pass farther than his. It seemed as though the undead had not truly fought until this time and day, its forces now pouring in from all directions.
Then, just then, Marcus noticed something strange. From over the hilltop on the adjacent side of the depression that served as Icecrown Glacier, a dark line appeared, yet another undead army.
"Damnit, is that Voldagan's Corps?" one of his commanders spoke, watching the spectacle along with him.
"Afraid so-nothing we can do for em'" he spoke, waving to another courier whom he had just given a message to for the second push forward.
In minutes it was upon the Third Corps, the main portion of the thrust towards the Citadel, and in minutes the men of the Third Corps had either been killed by the surprise attack from the rear, or were fleeing for their lives.
That was a fifth of our fighting force…he thought now noticing the Scourge's plan. All around, the Scourge's armies were closing in, pushing the Alliance forces and the Night Elf expedition together into a single clump, easy to kill.
Perhaps today I shall see my sons in the Great Beyond…, and with that thought on his mind, he mounted his large brown stallion, and rode to the front lines to lead his troops in their glorious, last charge.
Center of the Battle
The land was littered with palisades, trenches, and more death traps. From below the ground came the rumbling of nerubian tunnels. The skies filled with the aerial combatants, and the land became a great basin of shed blood, but still they pushed on.
"Sire, our forces are pushing through! We are at least half a mile into the enemies lines!" a runner boy quickly spoke up to him.
Winfield nodded, and quickly resumed the attack, reorienting his forces for a greater angle of destruction.
As waves washed upon a beach slowly eroding it, so did these men, eroding the enemies limestone wall of defense. To the south somewhere their new Night Elven allies would be attacking as well, helping create the final diversion that the Lord General needed.
Having his mount caught out from under him by an abomination, the Duke dropped to his armored legs, and swung his sword roundabout swiping three skeletal minions apart. Yet, from behind, a great Wight flung its ethereal sword at him, severing his leg's artery, circling around, and gashing at his chest, only then to fly off into the chaos.
With blood gushing from the un-mendable wounds, the Duke clutched his sword and lunged at the closest enemy, a necromancer clad in its customary orange robes. The fiend had been summoning the corpses of the Duke's former men to fight for him, something which he could not stand for.
With a mighty heave, and the last of his quickly disappearing energy, the Duke cleanly sliced the head off his opponent. The advance of his men grew noticeably greater as they were able to finish off the remaining warriors in their vicinity and push on.
"I have done…my duty…and won eternal-glory under…the Light" he whispered, suddenly on his back, his warm life-blood (quickly freezing in the cold) pooling beneath him.
A shadow came over his face, the face of a kindly elder elf priest.
"A shubra na, go, be at peace with the Light my son" he said.
And slowly, the Duke's life flashed before his eyes, as he slipped into the deeper, cottony, warmth of final death.
Forward Command Headquarters
Alaric watched as the order in the army disintegrated. The sadness washed over him as he witnessed the so many thousands he had led for months now dying. Already rumors of Duke Winfield's death had been received, and that the entire 1st Corps had been dissolved, along with the 3rd's utter destruction. From the south the Night Elven force had retreated, their backs to the 1st and 4th Corps.
They were now a perfect target. In nearly a full circle they were assailed. He was told that General Jonathan's command post had been on this small plateau before he had left to lead his men, and for all Alaric knew, die.
"Aye, it is time" he muttered, glancing at the shimmering vials that partially stuck out from beneath his ebon black cape. Dethal and Tanin were well enough now to back him in the venture of using the Waters again, but the Litch King it seemed had broken out of his spell.
Behind the lines, the ballistae, dwarven cannon, and catapults fired without abandon, pummeling the Scourge's ever lasting lines. It seemed that the bulk of the Scourge was converging on the area now, tens of thousands pouring in from the surrounding areas now. In a matter of an hour and a half, perhaps two hours, the army would be overwhelmed; within three, annihilated.
"I must stop this madness…" Alaric thought to himself watching the battle. His plans had all broiled down to this, this final moment. These were the hours that would decide the fate of the world, whether the growing power that was the Litch King would spill out across Azeroth, or that he would be defeated and the realms saved.
"Send messengers to the commanding Lord Generals of the 4th and 5th Corps. Tell them to angle the axis of their attack towards Icecrown Citadel, let us see if we can assail his Highness the Litch King himself!" he barked out at a group of Captains that had gathered around him.
It took thirty minutes for the orders to get through, but it seemed well enough received. While the 2nd, and the remnants of the 3rd and 1st would remain in position to fight off the converging forces from the rear, the Night Elven forces along with the 4th and 5th would advance toward the heart of Icecrown in the same echelon formation that had prevailed so well on the icy planes of Northrend in the weeks past.
After this final force had been committed, there would be no turning back. And so he set off to lead the final charge against Icecrown, which was now ever-nearing to the battered Army of the Alliance.
Forest Line, head of the Night Elven frontlines
Barak Demonlasher grew impatient. His captain had put off the assault on the undead's right flank for too long now. If they were to advance as the orders came from the High Command, then they would have to do so soon.
Yet, suddenly, the troops he was inspecting began to move, and to their left rode the Panther Huntresses, their elite cavalry, leading the infantry into battle. A hail of arrows flew over them as they advanced past the dead forest which his force had been most unfortunate to have ended up in.
"Finally…" he spat out in Darnassiun; and so the Night Elven force began its move forward as well, leading the remnants of the Alliance's army which had so far withstood hundreds of miles of marches, crushing casualty figures, and the forces of the Scourge.
Forward Alliance Command Envoy
"It is time to finish this!" he yelled out as his remaining commanders gathered around him. Nods came from some, others were filled with a distressed look. They knew that there was one last chance for them to break out of the strangling circle of undead, or to escape via mass teleportation by the exhausted Mage Corps.
Yet, Alaric had one last trump card up his sleeve; the Waters of Eternity, the very source of life that had brought the Blood Elves under his command this far.
"My casters will create a massive attack in the fore of our force. All units are to advance, as we are belaying the orders of the 2nd and 1st Corps to stay in position and cover the rear. It has all been taken care of. Gentlemen, Light be with you all! Man your positions, and today this disaster which has gripped out minds for three years will be no more! Dismissed!"
This would be the last order of his command. Yet, somehow that held no meaning to him at all. Since Eolas's death, something had grown hollow inside him, reminding him of when the Sunwell had been consumed, and there was no more power for him and his people to feed off of. Yet, it was an emptiness of feelings, replaced by a cold hard logic.
And so the final act had begun. By synchronizing time with his commanders Alaric would use the Waters to create a protective shield around the army, and blast all those in the way to the Great Beyond. Yet it was not going to be easy…Dethal and Tanin had just recovered, and had not their full strength back, and it was easy to be lost in such power; to lose ones self in the excitement of such energy.
Once readied, at the fourteenth hour of the day, Dethal and Tanin reported to him, as he saw the army still managing to hold the enemy at bay; its torn banners, screaming sergeants, its history stretching back to the beginning of this glorious war.
Now is the time. Now the hammer falls on the Scourge! Alaric thought, as he saw Dethal and Tanin approach atop their mounts up the small hill he had acclaimed for himself.
"Are you with me?" he whispered, the very meaning and essence of this fight filling him.
Tanin merely nodded, an utterly determined look in his cold blue eyes. Dethal replied strongly "To the death, my sire, Lord of the High and Blood Elves"
"Good…then let us begin my friends" he replied solemnly.
He looked around one last time, knowing this would be the last peaceful moment he would have until that final terrible confrontation with the Lich King himself. As he looked around him, it seemed as if time slowed down; the torn and blood stained banners flapping wildly in the wind, the masses of soldiers throwing their weight against the enemy, the confusion of battle, all his sensed seemed heightened in this moment he knew would perhaps be his last free moment.
He hardened himself, and looked to the fore, calling up the arcane magic of the land, and beyond, something of which he rarely did. He placed the six Vials afore him. Concentrating he found the spark that had driven him all these long months and prepared. He called then upon the glistening Waters themselves, the feeling of elation and power nearly overcoming him again. And then the world lit!
Feeling Dethal and Tanin feeding themselves to him once again, he flung himself into the cover of the energy, and prepared to use it. He commanded the energy to wrap itself around the army, creating a bubble of protection. Any unlucky undead in the magical armor was immediately destroyed by the great ordering of the magic itself. As the undead charged again they found only ultimate death in touching the destructive bubble. Free for the moment of the Scourge's infinite forces, the soldiers cheered, and prepared to move forward. He then placed another bubble around himself and his two mana-feeders, to protect them when the army had moved beyond their range.
Yes, you cannot touch us! With the Light and all good on our side, you shall all find peace this day! his thoughts exploded.
As they moved forward under the cover of the great blue half-globe of scillinating magic, Alaric prepared his next move. He threw great blasts of the energy across the land, cutting wide swaths through the terrain and undead forces to make a clear path for the army.
And once again he probed Icecrown Citadel to see if its shield was still up, powered by the lost Vial; it was, and a new power began to rise in it, the Lich King's debuffing spell of silence nearly spent.
As great potions of land and the enemy were cleared out from before them, and the Scourge's attacks now futile, the remnants of the proud army of the Alliance began to pick up its pace.
Now that he had cleared a path and assured the survival of the army for now, Alaric turned now to watch vigilantly upon his eternal enemy, who might now any second be awaking from the spell of silence.
And there it was! A blast of mental power supported by a slight use of the Water's magic nearly threw him back. That one was directed straight at him! The Litch King hadn't even used much power from the Waters, most of the blast coming from his own mental power.
He must be terrible indeed…Alaric thought, as he countered, throwing his own blast of magical power at his enemy. And so once again the two traded blows that nearly tore Alaric apart, if not for the Waters.
Again entering the trance of the fight he directed the energies again and again at his enemy, first from above, summoning great clouds of storm that were quickly blown away by the Litch's own power, then using great waves of elemental flame to burn down the deadened wood that surrounded the Icecrown Glacier in an attempt to attack from all around, all the way till even using the earth itself to try and topple Icecrown Citadel, yet all was repelled and counter attacked, each time seemingly more powerful than the next.
This is impossible! Alaric thought He isn't even using the power from the Waters that much. Doust he not know how to use such power!
Yet he hardened himself again, knew that he had to succeed. The apparent stalemate continued, neither being able to penetrate each others mental and magical defenses.
Suddenly he felt a weakening in his mana-feed, snapped out of the trance, and noticed that Tanin had fallen on the ground, lying still, utterly spent. Dethal still stood, eyes shut tightly, forehead lathered in sweat. How long had he been entranced? It mattered not, for the shield around himself would protect them for the time being.
In the background, he spied Icecrown Citadel, the surroundings smoking and misted from the strikes he had tried against it. The army itself had advanced well, now within ballistae range of the actual Citadel, but yet another undead army seemed to appear and position themselves in front of the army.
They'll be killed like all the hundreds of others before them if they go anywhere near the globe of energy…he thought, letting himself a small smile. The undead charged, and suddenly a huge explosion rippled across the surface of the bubble. It was breached! Within ballistae range of Icecrown Citadel itself the army had been stopped!
"DAMNATION!" he roared. "I'm going to handle this myself…as it should have been" voice then dropping back into its deep bass.
Again he snapped back into the trance. I'll have to do with just Dethal…not enough power to breach the Litch's defenses, and the undead have completely block the army. Surely the rest of their forces will be caught up with the army soon so no longer can we rely on them to destroy Icecrown, but perhaps to weaken its base? Yes, that will do. They know what to do, they are brave, smart men. He thought again of Tal Winfield, felt the loss of the superb strategist, but knew that it was his time and nothing could change it. Once more attack to cover our advance should do it…he then decided, knowing that he would have to get closer to Icecrown to assail it.
Summoning one final blast of climactic energy, he threw a wave of freezing wind across the battlefield, blowing many an undead back, and pushing deep into the Litch King's defenses.
With the Litch reeling from the attack, he quickly shook out of the trance again, which awoke Dethal with a start. Briefly informing him of the plan of attack, Dethal picked up the spent Tanin, and prepared to use the blink spell to transport them across the battlefield to the frontlines of the army.
With a nod, the energy enveloped them, and cast them directly into the line of battle.
In the air arrows were flung, followed by giant ballistae arrows, catapult's flaming rocks, and the few siege engine's left thorium tipped artillery shells. Magic shot itself through the lines, killing so many. And all around the Scourge's forces began to encircle again…
Frontlines
Marcus Jonathan yet lived. He had been mixed in with his men when the chain of command had dissolved over the 1st Corps. He still was able to lead those around him, yet it was not many, a hundred at best he had decided.
He suddenly caught a burst of light in the corner of his eye, and spotted the crimson armor of the commanding general.
"Lord General!" he cried out, half in wonder, half seeking instruction on how to command the hopeless battle.
The figure approached amidst the sea of men and looked sternly into the eyes of the Azerothian general. "I knew you'd be in the thick of the fighting. Just like the old times eh?" he started off with a curt nod. "But we have not the time to dally. I am to prepare the remnants of our cavalry for a final assault on the Citadel itself. We shall break the lines of the enemy and assail the stairs of Icecrown, where all things shall be decided. You are now in command of this army now. When you see Icecrown crumble, use what few mages there are left and teleport the remnants of our force the hell out of here; anywhere is safer than here. Light be with you Marcus." and with a wry smile, the Blood Elf suddenly disappeared amongst the men again, leaving a wide eyed and stunned General Marcus Jonathan.
Behind the Frontlines
He had managed to gather enough of a force, perhaps two hundred knights. Procuring two horses, freed from the deaths of their masters, Alaric and Dethal positioned themselves at the fore of the spearhead shaped formation.
The dirty, grime covered faces of the men were still ripe with anticipation and excitement of battle as they watched rouge ballistae shot impact across the surface of Icecrown Citadel, leaving gaping marks in the Nether-ice.
As the battle above and afore raged, Alaric made his final checks on the Waters. They were now securely tightened across his belt, hidden by the ebon blackness of his cape. This was the last move, the last offensive of the war. And all wars if we fail… he thought silently.
He unsheathed the ancient elven rune-blade passed down by the various family lineages of the High Elves, the one said to be crafted by the first blacksmith of Quel'thalas, watched it gingerly as its runes glowed a bright orange, ready for the blood of his enemies.
"Taren, yus manar iamen. Taren, yus manar reishtai" (Today, all is avenged. Today, all is set right) he spoke in his native tongue.
All was ready. It was now or never. He raised a hand, and behind, Arrius, also riding with them in this final battle, blew deeply into the Lion Horn of Stormwind, which he had found in the caves of Stonetalon all those months ago.
The troops in their fore parted, and with a cry that shook the earth, the cavalry shot forth, blasting through the Scourge's lines with the help of Alaric and Dethal's flame spells. The Scourge's archers got of one weak volley, which caused some of the riders to be cast down with the deadly hail, yet not enough to slow the charge.
Trampling anything that got in their way that had not already been incinerated the quick strike towards Icecrown continued with more inertia than ever. They had passed a seven hundred yard past their lines in less than two minutes, cutting a wide swath through the undead, whether they be rotting ghouls, shambling abominations, or the foul obsidian statues.
As they continued forward unhindered, he lifted his right hand, signaling Arrius's right wing to cut farther north, creating a wider path for the cavalry as they changed shape from the spearhead to a single line.
Every few seconds a rider or his horse would collapse due to some kind of destructive ailment, whether it be the sword of a undead reaver, the butcher's knife of an abomination of the few arrows that penetrated their line, yet still it was not enough to stop them; the charge continued.
The ground below was a hard ice covered in a thick, packed layer of snow as if to keep it from being slippery. Here and there was a crack in the ice shelf that sundered it, mostly thanks to the flame magics that Alaric shot out in all directions.
As Arrius's force continued to widen the flank, Alaric heaved his horse to go faster, and as it did the great Citadel continued to grow, surrounded by a brilliant blue aura of magic.
"QUEL'THALAS!" Alaric cried out upon the wind as he ripped his blade and magic through the enemies in his way. Nothing would stop them, nothing could stop them…
Yet, when he looked to his sides, he now saw that most of the riders were missing in the action, either by death or separation. The lines closed as the number of riders continued to decrease. But they were so close now to the great pillar of ice that rose from the ground.
As they neared the base, Alaric noticed ruins from previous battles that had occurred here, and four obelisks that surrounded Icecrown, apparently doing nothing at the given moment. Directly ahead was a bridge that steeply climbed over a huge crack in the ice. The crossing slowed their attack though, having to compact the riders together against still so many Scourge.
With a cry, Alaric fired a plethora of magics amongst the enemies that surrounded them, wiping them out in instants. The fire engulfed the entire front of the great Citadel, which was perhaps a modest three hundred feet wide at the base.
Exhausted from the attack, Alaric felt the potency of the Waters still with him. Around, chaos reigned, as Alaric and the last few riders now strung together, the last in the force.
To his side, the panting Dethal smiled, eager with all the killing. They were now ten, the last hope of the free world. Nobody knew of the extent of the Scourge's forces, how great they had grown. If they could not stop it now, or at least weaken it greatly, nothing, not the combined armies at the Battle of Mount Hyjal, nothing, could stop it.
And so they rode, hell reigning around. The arrows zipped past him, hit the rider to his left in the faceplate, the rider then slumping in the saddle, its horse overtaken by the undead.
His eyes burned as the freezing wind chipped into them, muscles with the feeling of rubber, an arrow protruding from his leg. He ripped the arrow from his leg and quickly shrugged off the pain, prepared as the Citadel neared.
Straight ahead he saw a long, winding staircase up the gleaming tower of ice, literally imbedded and carved out of it. Still they continued, the sword punishing the enemies of the world.
"NOW! DISMOUNT!" Alaric screamed out, and the few riders left pulled the reins on their mounts, slowed, and leap off their mounts. Alaric threw himself in a midair summersault brought the blade down on a lumbering abomination, gripping it for dear life as the abomination howled in pain at its stabbed shoulder. The Blood Elf withdrew the blade, now covered in putrid blood, and brought it down on the abomination's skull with a satisfying crunch.
Nearly nothing now stood between them and the staircase. He quickly retrieved a Vial, and shattered it against the ground. "Dethal! Go! Secure the staircase!" he yelled out above the din of battle.
With his own exhaustion racking him, Alaric raised his hands, alone against the entire army of the Scourge, saw them quickly rushing at him, surrounding him. He quickly chanted his spell of control that he had learned from the Book of Medivh, and a brilliant golden aura surrounded the base of the tower, the undead caught within it melting away in seconds, their anguished screams filling the air. The shattered vial…now that would hold the undead at the base of the Citadel at bay for a long time, enough time to secure their victory.
Yet as he peered at the great spire of ice that reached into the clouds, he saw the Scourge's greatest troops positioned amongst the stairs, above the aura and safe from its effects. If it was a fight up they wanted then it was one they would get; these knights were also the crack troops of the Alliance, and so this was bound to be a great battle to the top.
Alaric rushed to rejoin the last seven of his knights and Dethal, who then began to climb the very stairs of Icecrown Citadel, the home and hearth of the undead Scourge.
The stairs circled around and around for what seemed like miles, yet as they advanced they drew ever closer to the top, to the heart of the enemy.
"More undead milord!" one of the knights called out.
"Fight to the death! Fight warriors!" Alaric replied, voice high toned. He looked back at those that still were behind him, those very few. As the undead warriors clad in mithril and lightforge armor continued to rush down on them, Alaric yelled out a battle cry, and rushed forward, soon followed by Dethal, and the rest of the company. And there on the stairs of Icecrown they fought. As one they threw up their blades and brought them down, only two of the seven penetrating the amazingly crafted armor. The dozen skeletal reapers, eyes burning a golden flame, came down upon the seven as a storm upon a plain.
One knight was impaled, his life blood gushing out, as he was flung off the side of the narrow staircase into the din of battle below. Alaric ducked as a blade swashed across his hair, slicing a good portion of hair off as Dethal and another knight struck at another reaper, cutting it down on its unarmored, rotted ankles, then taking advantage of its disability, and striking it down for good. The other knights battled furiously with their own reapers, another one of their number killed before their enemy was dispatched.
Now they were five, but the ascension continued.
Below, smoke and fire gushed up from the battle. Across the plains of Northrend the fight continued, more blood spilled as the few last vanguard continued up the steep staircase towards the top. Yet another group of skeletal reapers met them on the way up, yet another battle to contend for.
Summoning the flame of the earth Alaric melted the armor of the unnatural creatures before they even reached them, yet their will and strength kept them coming, even as their molten armor charred their bones.
One of the reapers suddenly jumped out of their advancing column on the wall of men and elves, lopping off the head of another knight, a pillar of blood marking the man's death. Alaric surged forward to meet the reaper, and did likewise at the unarmored creature. With all the ferocity and strength in them the four fought, the other two knights far from home and hope, but with fire in their hearts.
Pulling a series of swordsman maneuvers Alaric managed to kill another two of the creatures before the rest were put to rest by a blast of elemental wind, knocking them off the hundreds of feet high spire.
Shouldn't use…magic…anymore…this'll exhaust me even…with the help…of the Waters…Alaric thought, his strength waning.
And so again they continued. As they ascended, they began to notice strange runes glowing within the ice itself, whether demonic or otherwise. The cloud ceiling quickly met them as they exhaustingly continued the climb, blocking out the great masses that clashed below, and above…inky blue skies that stretched across a vast plain of broiling black clouds.
"We near the top my Lord, Alaric'Quel. I believe there are no more reapers to falter our advance…" Dethal reported, while the two knights shivered incessantly in their armor, unable to withstand the elements as Elves were.
"Then let us end it once and for all. You have all been good souls, and shall forever find peace and happiness in the Light. We…shall be victorious, or we shall die trying" he spoke, eyes tearing at the moment "It is here, that all the tragedy that has occurred these years will be defined and avenged. Arise, chosen of the Light! Let us do battle one last time!" he finished by ramming his blade into the ice wall, chips of crystal frozen water splashing over their armor. "Let that be a scar the Litch King shall never forget!"
They neared the top…here, the final battle would begin. Just above an eerie luminescent light pulsed, the very heart of the Scourge itself within their grasp. The top was just within a few steps now…
As the final steps passed away, Alaric, trembling, clutched tightly the vials in his left hand, prepared to unplug the enchanted stoppers at any moment. As they passed the final steps, the top became visible. At their immediate sides were to walls of nether-ice that ended in jagged pikes that seemed to puncture the painfully blue sky. Across from them was an open ground perhaps twenty feet across that ended at a sudden abnormality in the shiny slate surface of the ice; a massive pillar of glowing blue nether-ice sported with skulls and orange runes. Carved into the pillar of jagged ice was what resembled a throne, large, and of something seeming partly ice, partly…something else; and upon the throne sat a black figure, seemingly soaking up the luminescence of the damnable place.
Garbed in ebon plate and mail; with skulls etched and carved in at the center chest piece, knee caps, shoulder pads, and shin pads, a brown, weathered fur interweave in the leggings and chest mail, oversized shoulder pauldrons, and with a helm of the same color of armor adorned across the head embellished with a single blue amulet inset in the forehead, and three spikes from the head, sat the Litch King, calm, seemingly elsewhere.
In his right hand, which dropped from the side of the Frozen Throne, was the rune blade, Frostmourn, its long, jagged length sticking deeply into the ice below it. It's goat-skull caricature at the hilt eye's glowed a slight grayish color, giving off a similar mist. Across the blade itself were etched demonic runes, faintly luminescent orange-crimson light emitted, the blade seemingly not of the world.
This is he…the one that has…done…all of this Alaric thought, the conception of such a moment overwhelming him.
Beneath the armor, a human or elven form, one that Alaric knew once belonged to the Prince Arthas Menethil of Lordaeron, his white hair pouring forth from beneath the helm. Yet the form remained still as Alaric, Dethal, and the two human knights set up in a line, slowly advancing, swords pointed toward the sitting mass of armor.
But in less time than Alaric could fathom, nigh instantaneously, his legs, and that of his companions were encased in blocks of the unbreakable nether-ice. Swinging at it like his comrades did availed him nothing-still the figure sat.
Slowly, Alaric stopped the struggle, not even denting the ice. Reaching into the vast ambient arcane magic of this place he summoned forth a mighty blast of Azeroth's own elemental fire, which quickly melted the ice off of his legs and those of his comrades.
Yet as soon as he had done that, two white lights appeared from under the figure's helm; its eyes. The knight next to Alaric grasped his heart and made a chortled noise, dropping to his knees. The black figure at the end of the rise stood, extending its full height, taller than Alaric himself, and far larger in its far thicker armor. The knight, on his knees, made one last scream as he was suddenly ripped into bloody shreds by seemingly nothing at all but open air.
Horrified at the bloody spectacle, realizing that the mental power of the Litch King was next to nothing, Alaric quickly uncorked one of the Vials, yet was not quick enough to try his next move.
He found himself frozen in place, unable to move, some foul magic impairing him. Dethal and the surviving knight rushed the Litch King, who stood still, but raising a hand, his unblinking eyes flaring. Dethal was thrown far back, out of Alaric's limited sight. The knight though, skittered across the ground to Alaric's feet.
With a deep stomping, the dread figure closed in on him and the knight, who frantically tried to arise, to escape. In an instant, the Litch King raised the knight's still writhing body into the air with his mind, and suddenly impaled it upon Frostmourn-the knight stopped his writhing, and exhaled deeply and inhaled lightly, still alive, yet dying. With a flash, the Litch King thrust his sword downward, pointing in the direction of the edge of the Frozen Throne, and by his mind's will, the body, still partially alive, was thrown in a bloody mess toward the edge, where it stopped, before being torn asunder like his former comrade.
Alaric could do nothing but stare on in horror, still as could be. Then, the Litch King shot his glare at Alaric, and suddenly he felt the probing of its mind in his own, the pressure…it felt as if his skull were being crushed by an invisible hand…redness began to flood his vision…
Dead before I could even slash at him…Alaric thought, sure those were his last words. Yet, from behind, a roar, and Dethal jumped, bloodied at the mouth and nose. In an amazing series of swordsman maneuver, he ended up behind the Litch King, and smiled triumphantly, preparing his attack.
And that was it! Alaric was free from the Litch King's grasp, fell backward, still reeling from the mental control of his body…felt the vial still clutched in his hand…
In front of him, Dethal, about to strike, was suddenly thrown backwards and smashed into the Frozen Throne itself with a bone crunching snap. Without hesitation or thought, Alaric reach up with the vial, and poured its contents on his face.
In what seemed like an eternity, yet was less than a second as he knew, his power increased one hundred fold. His entire mind seemed open to possibilities never thought of before. The figure once again glared at him, and he felt its invisible hand trying to once again crush his skull. But this time, he resisted!
"Most interesting…" the creature spoke, his voice seemingly ethereal, yet real; a seemingly human voice, yet shadowed by some great blackness that stretched into the deepness of this earth itself. "It seems that I underestimated the power of these…Waters…it has not been since the last attack-all those years ago-that someone was able to resist an attack of mine…yet it has been since then that anyone has made it to my Throne. I know of you, Alaric Faltron'Quel, your crusade to destroy me. I know your deepest secrets, strengths and weaknesses"
Alaric, invigorated with power, stood now, raising his blade to match his opponents, whose cape rustled in the wind. "I have come to destroy your Betrayer! And to destroy you Litch King! I know you both as the destructor of this world! Now, DIE!" he screamed out.
And the blades met in a sparkle of metal against metal, flames meeting at the blades. The two rune blades, Frostmourn, and, Quel'Barrar met, and bathed in each others power.
The seemingly infinite power of his opponent only doubled his own resolve, and Alaric charged forward, flame jetting from his free hand, which was blown away by the power of the Litch King.
With the wave of a hand Alaric was pushed back, the blast tearing at the cloth on his cape, and chipping the front of his armor, but he did not fall. Throwing himself forward, Alaric cut down with his blade, a move parried by the Litch King. He shifted his weight to his left foot, and escaped the deadlock to come again at the ribcage of the Litch King, another parried move.
With astonishing speed and strength the Litch King threw his sword down upon Alaric's head, which nearly hit, Alaric shifting to the side in just the knick of time before the blade came down upon his own blood red pauldron, cracking it in two clean pieces.
With a backstab, Alaric shot toward the Litch King again, and this time managed to hit the armor itself, scraping the mail, dislodging a ring or two. Now, the deep sapphire amulet glowed with great intensity, and the next thing Alaric knew he was on his back with a great racking pain in his stomach. Getting up, he noticed the figure walking toward him, and felt a slight trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.
"Insanity…" he muttered, now in the heat of battle. He lunged forward once again to meet the blade of his enemy. Upon the roof of the world, the two powerful entities fought a fight like a dance, parry, lunge, strike.
"Tar lethan dalas maner!" Alaric cried, swearing his battle oath during one interval phase. The two fighters, now dislodged from the fight, slowly circled one another.
"Power…you have it in you. Not enough though. No, not nearly enough. Soon, my armies will cleanse this world as they would have done if not for you. The age of the living shall come crashing down upon your head, and the death of all things shall echo across this world forever as we launch into the Twisting Nether, to destroy all our enemies, demonic, or living…" the Litch King spoke, his voice echoing and painful to hear.
"Tell me…Arthas…what was it that made you betray your life!" Alaric spat, the circle still turning.
"I did not betray my life naïve fool…I began it…" the voice sounded more human now, more like the Arthas that Alaric had once met in the royal court of Lordaeron. Beneath the helm Alaric thought he saw on the mottled snowy skin of Arthas a twisted smile upturn on his purple lips.
And again he lunged, though his time throwing a bolt of electricity at Alaric. With the tattered remains of his enchanted cape, Alaric absorbed the magical blast, but the blade cut deep into his torso as he just managed to jump out of the way.
The wound froze like the ice itself, Frostmourn doing its own damage slowly. Shrugging off the pain, Alaric parried another attack, and another, as they flew at him, some missing and chipping off bits of the Frozen Throne itself.
In a daring strike, he shot a ball of green flame at the Litch King, and cut at the legs, shattering one of the boot plates before being punched in the chest with a ball of icy black demon majik which in turn sent pellets made out of his chest plate into the air.
Heaving heavily, trying to regain breath, he saw that the Litch King was still standing still, ready to pounce on him at any moment. This was not how he envisioned the final battle...
He felt deeply within himself, touched the power that the Waters had given him temporarily, and their surge went up in him like a sudden blast of energy. In the blink of an eye he was in front of the Litch King, the charge of frightening speed. The elven blade met Frostmourn with such ferocity that both swords began to glow a hot red, their magical bindings tearing at each other.
Inches from his face puffs of white steam rose from his enemy's mouth…Yes…now you see that I can still defeat you, even if it costs me my life! Alaric thought, throwing the sword towards his enemy's neck, which would have decapitated the Betrayer had he not thrown his neck backwards avoiding the blade's length by mere centimeters, causing his ebon helm-crown to slip off his head, letting a cascade of white hair pour down to his shoulders.
"Arthas…" Alaric sneered, disgusted with the man's face. Across from him, unmasked was Arthas, once the noble son of King Terenas Menethil II of Lordaeron. It was this…thing-that had turned on his own countrymen and father, and destroyed his country, Quel'thalas, Stromgarde, and Dalaran. It was because of him that the lives of millions had been lost.
The unshaven face was a pasty white, deep crevasses and wrinkles dotting his forehead and thin cheekbones. His eyes glowed the same white-blue of unspeakable power, something he had surely not used even now. Bulging veins crisscrossed his neck and forehead, and a somewhat upturned purple lip displayed a set of rotting yellow teeth that seemed to be sharpened.
"You are truly a soulless creature Arthas…" Alaric called out, utter hatred flowing in great green flames from his eyes.
"Once…not anymore; I am the Lord of the Scourge, King of Lordaeron, and Destructor of this World. You would do little to stand in front of me little elf…your kind should have died with your homeland, and with your pathetic weakling of a friend, Eolas…" he replied, the voice echoing across the top of Icecrown.
"YOU DESTROYED HIM!" Alaric screamed in anguish, flashing the blade towards Arthas, nearly cutting him at the shoulder, but the Litch King was too fast, dodged the attack and struck home on Alaric's back, slashing a wide gash through it and knocking Alaric to the ground.
Pain coursed through him. Pain and guilt. This beast had shattered the mind of his most trusted companion and friend, and turned him against the cause.
Yet another failure on my part…and another sin on his…Alaric thought, face climbing out of the ice to see the black figure stand atop him. The pain…it shot through his back and hip where he had been caught earlier…but he had to go on, had to finish the fight-had to win.
Summoning his strength he rose, felt the warm blood dripping beneath his armor, and raised Quel'Barrar in the battle pose, ready at once for combat. With another series of moves the top of Icecrown became something more akin to a battle arena or fighter's circle, as the two powerful beings, Alaric empowered by the Waters, and the Litch King, Arthas, fought it out to the end.
But at the end of one series of maneuvers the Litch King raised his hand once again, and summoned his mighty mental power, an ethereal power snatching Quel'Barrar out of Alaric's hand and throwing it across Icecrown, digging it deep into the side of the Frozen Throne.
Weaponless, Alaric stood resolute still facing Arthas, whose oversized pauldrons made his head appear small and unfitting to the monster armor.
"Fool…now only in the end do you see the truth…" and with that Arthas approached at a fast pace, now running towards Alaric, Frostmourn ready to pierce his soft body.
Feeling the magic of the world with him, Alaric stood, ready for the impact against a shield he quickly erected in front of him. And with a screeching noise Frostmourne was overturned, in a shower of sparks forced to the side by the golden sphere of energy Alaric threw around himself.
"Andu falas!" Alaric yelled out, summoning one of the oldest, yet most powerful tricks of a Blood Elf.
Beneath the Litch King the incredibly strong nether-ice began to split, and melt, turning into slick water, and from the cracks rose a great flame, engulfing the damnable Arthas.
Through the pillar of flames Alaric could see nothing, but for a second he allowed himself reprieve, his body racking with aches from the fight, even in his heightened state.
But suddenly a might gust of wind blew away the flame, and there stood Arthas, eyes now a flaming golden, hands upraised, Frostmourne sheathed. From his hands a great green wave of warlock-demon energy flushed, covering the top of Icecrown in what seemed like a green cloud of energy. Alaric answered the call, raising his hands, and invoking the power of all magic that he had ever learned, a great rainbow of color, green, blue, gold, orange, and more pouring from his gauntlets.
Unaware to both, in the skies above a great storm began to grow. Below the clouds that had hidden the top of Icecrown were blown away by the higher altitude storm, which began to rage around them.
Deadlocked in the battle, their ambient energies, now meeting in a vast plethora of energy was creating this unearthly storm. Lightning and thunder crackled in the skies, striking the ground and destroying all in its path, undead or otherwise. Freezing rain and acid rain began to pour from the magical storm, as with great gale, and great flaming comets descended from the clouds
Icecrown itself rumbled with the great storm, the great spires below it toppling in clouds of ice shards. The chains that for some unknown reason were connected to Icecrown began to crack, and shatter under the intense power of the storm.
Now it seemed as if the entire storm was centering around the battle of the two combatants on Icecrown. In truth the storm was the ambient energy of the entire land, being sucked into the duel of wits and power between Alaric, vastly empowered by the impossibly powerful Waters, and Arthas, the Litch King and connection between mortal and god, yet it continued to rage nonetheless.
Frontlines of the Alliance
Barak Demonlasher gazed on in awe and horror. He knew what was happening. The fool was using the power of the Waters, something that would undoubtedly call the Burning Legion back to the world.
"Damn him!" he crocked, voice dry and hoarse from the battle. It seemed as if the battle itself had stopped, the Litches and Death Knights, undead, and living, had all stopped to watch and protect themselves from the raging storm and deadly spectacle.
But deep within himself Barak knew that this could be it, a final victory over all evil in the world. Possibly…
Icecrown Summit
In a soundless scream, Alaric continued to pour his life's precious energies as the energies around him into the battle. Whoever broke from this would die undoubtedly; but…No…I cannot keep this up. He must die by the sword! The thought shot through him.
And with a final push of power, Alaric caught the Litch King off guard, his enemy stumbling back in surprise at how much energy was thrown at him. Suddenly, a great beam of rouge lightening struck the side of Icecrown, shattering its base. The tower began to list to the side. Alaric clung for life against the side of the tower, which was now clearly falling at great speed and rate. As the wind cut against him, he quickly threw up a divine shield around him, to protect from the fall. He saw the Litch King, now with a shield of bristling blue energy around him, strike Frostmourne into the floor of the tower, and hold his ground as the great citadel began to crumble.
With a deafening explosion, the ice fell upon him, and Icecrown had fallen…the tower which had housed Arthas, the Litch King, the very nerve center of the Scourge, had been destroyed.
Alaric, pain writhing through him, understood this was his one chance at surprise. He quickly pushed through the rubble that had accumulated atop his shield, and once again saw the sky. Above, a great ring of clouds had acclimated themselves around the shards of Icecrown, seemingly drinking at the energy that once flowed from the tower, yet the sky directly above the tower was still a perfect blue. Spotting both Arthas brushing the ruins off himself, and his blade, Alaric sprung.
Alaric rushed to retrieve his blade, which in one quick tug was freed from a block of nether-ice, though as quickly as he was upon Arthas, Frostmourn again met his blade. Screeching his blade across Arthas's, he was able to twirl out of the deadlock, and give one great slash. Arthas's head turned to avoid the blade…and when he turned back to look at Alaric, a great gash had set itself across his thin, pale cheek, eyes now furious.
The swords met again and again, showering the ruins of Icecrown with sparks and embers, but in a finale move, Alaric thrust his sword into the air, called a word of power, and a great bolt of lightening flew out of the air and embellished his sword with a brilliant white aura, which he struck then towards the Litch King's plated chest.
With astonishing speed and the strength of the augmented blade Alaric's Quel'Barrar dug deep into Arthas's plated chest, and with a satisfying crunch embedded itself into one of his ribs.
A pained look shadowed over Arthas's face, but the pain soon was extinguished, and the Litch King kicked Alaric backwards, and grabbed the hilt of Quel'Barrar, and withdrew it from his body, the length covered in blood, yet the Litch King's ultimate power enough to keep any one wound from killing him.
Alaric stood again, weaponless now, and completely exhausted. His enemy hadn't had to fight his way up a tower and use his magic to defend an army.
But in the way that Arthas now moved he could see that he was injured, blood oozing forth from the wound. With a burst of final energy Alaric rushed forward, evading Frostmourn in just the knick of time as it cut through his brow, and was able to retrieve his own blade.
Once again the two circled each other, the storm above still raging, though the sky just above them seemingly opening and filling the ruins Icecrown with a perfect, golden aura of the sun.
"Have at you!" Alaric yelled out one last time, and the two assailants charged toward one another. As the two charged, Alaric summoned his last energy to prepare for a final strike to decapitate Arthas.
And the two struck with the force of a thousand men! Yet, Quel'Barrar shattered under the hit, the top half of the blade spinning into the air. Frostmourn, hungry for more blood, continued forward, and then doubled back to strike its enemy through the back.
With a thud, Alaric felt the blade embed itself within his stomach, and in his mind, its cold presence ripping the life from him. Warm blood bubbled up into his mouth, as he stood; fell to his knees, eyeing the world with finality.
At least…I made a…good fight…he though, feeling life seep out of him.
From behind, a great roar "NOOO!"
Icecrown Ruins
Dethal saw the blade plunge itself into Alaric as he had opened his eyes, unaware of what had caused him to lose consciousness. He noticed that Icecrown itself had collapsed, and found himself strewn across the ruins of the once tall spire, in some miraculous way surviving.
A great cry echoed from within him "NOOO!" as he saw Alaric on his knees, death nearly upon him.
Fury rose within him, and finding the blade of one of the crushed knights, he rushed forward to meet the Litch King. Arthas, blade still impaling Alaric, suddenly jerked it out of him, the razor sharp ends of each spike doing more damage as it exited the wound. With that, Alaric fell to the icy surface, motionless.
And their two blades met, Frostmourne splattered with the blood of his liege. But he was no match for Arthas, the Litch King just playing with him.
For less than a minute they battled back and forth, every one of Dethal's moves easily countered by his enemy whist he was barely able to even parry. Foolishness must have gripped me he thought I should have gone for the Waters first!
"Enough" the great voice bellowed from his enemy. And in one strike the blade was thrown from his hands and he was forced to his knees by some invisible force…the Litch King's mental power.
"And this is how I die…executed like a pig" he muttered, barely able to open his mouth.
But as soon as Arthas raised Frostmourn in a final slicing motion, a great shadow descended upon him. Dethal saw the look of confusion on his face as he looked up to behold a great sapphire dragon coming straight for them.
A great blue flame shot from its open maw towards Arthas, directed only at Arthas. The Litch King threw up his blade, and met the great fireball, and was barely able to hold it back as the dragon continued toward him.
But with the grace of his kind, the massive dragon disengaged, and landed upon the still placid clouds of ice shards that made up Icecrown. With a blast of magic the Litch King was thrown back, now tired by his fight with a being so empowered by the Waters, and unable to contend with such a surprise, but given time would be able to slay even this dragon.
Dethal saw that the dragon was powerful; nay, more than just powerful! He was brimming and bristling with magic and energy, a being nearly a strong or as strong as the Water invigorated Alaric had been.
The massive behemoth let out a terrifying roar which shook the ground, and caused Arthas to put himself at the ready in an attempt to destroy the dragon usuing naught but his mental strength, alas though, the dragon's strength and resilience allowed him not even that.
Suddenly, the great blue looked directly at Dethal, and a voice appeared in his head "All will be explained later. If you wish to live, retrieve your injured master and climb upon my back. Secure yourselves tightly amongst my scales"
Without thinking Dethal did as he was told, instantly snatching the bleeding body of Alaric, who now lay prone, unmoving except for ragged gasps of breath. He quickly assailed the blue's scales, climbing onto his back carefully keeping Alaric elevated with his reserves of energy. After he had secured himself and Alaric, whom he placed a spell of stasis on to preserve his last drops of life, the great blue roared again, and slashed at Arthas.
Arthas grinned, and dove forward, gashing at the blue's underbelly. The dragon was defeated in all attacks it had made, its surprise now gone. And suddenly Arthas, though wounded, seemed to grow more powerful than ever, yet not as powerful as he seemed he could get. The destruction of Icecrown and its energies must have injured him greatly in some way, perhaps as the Elves had suffered from their loss of magic from the Sunwell, Arthas was suffering a temporary injury to his power to control the Scourge or even his own power. A great ebon aura surrounded him, and his glowing eyes flamed. With a great blast of frost magic, he quickly froze a leg of the dragon, his main shot missing as the great blue barely dodged in time. Arthas seemed very tired now, his moves beginning to become sluggish.
Howling in pain at the frostbite, the dragon, his limb now turning a blackish purple, released his great wings, and took off in flight. Upon the blue's back, Dethal fumbled with one of the three last Vials, and dropped a bit of it upon his palm, enough to intensify the amplitude of his spell a hundredfold.
In a gush of divine magic, he unleashed a great orb of power around the ruins of Icecrown, a prison of a sort, like the shield that Alaric had used to protect the advancing army. In there, against the powers of the Waters themselves, the Litch King would be stranded for a while.
"Elf, do not dabble in things you cannot comprehend" the voice boomed through his head again, a hint of pain in it. As soon as Dethal had noticed the frostbite on the dragon's paw he knew it was going to claim the limb, no healing magic reversing the effects of black arts such as this one.
Dethal, unable to comply, hung for dear life as the dragon soared through the air.
"Why isn't he striking us down?" Dethal sputtered, exhaustion racking his body.
"You know why. Without the connection to Icecrown, which was a major hub of energy to the Twisting Nether, Arthas is temporarily weakened, even though he may not show it" the dragon's mind-speak replied.
True enough, the Scourge below seemed…panicky, riled up, unrestful, and in some cases even hostile to one another. The dragon had flown them not far, the remnants of the army directly below them. Dethal was shocked…from all directions undead flocked, while a pathetic semicircle, a mere smattering of men, a thousand, two thousand perhaps, continued to battle to death.
"Tell them to withdraw. The battle is over. I will enhance your powers with my own. You can speak with your mind to your captain now" the dragon commanded. Dethal felt himself nodding. It was over. Not just the battle, but the campaign, and the war. But had they lost? Dethal could not accept the fact. Too many thousands had died.
Using his own powers, Dethal sought out General Marcus Jonathan, now in command of the fight, or at least when they had departed. "General" Dethal spoke out with his mind, feeling the General's nerve-racked and battle lusted mind edging against his, and then suddenly filled with surprise and suspicion.
"If you seek to overturn my mind, you will not succeed!" he cried out.
"Peace, it is I, Dethal of Tharenwind, Captain to the Lord Marshal, Alaric'Quel. I am now in command of the force. Order Mage Corps to set themselves up amongst the men and mass teleport the army away, as close to the Navy's base of operations at Daggerfall Bay. From there commence a full retreat back to Kul Tiras, the battle is over"
He felt a wave of depression and elation both in the mind of his subordinate, as he replied warily.
As the dragon circled above, Dethal saw as the army's surviving formations began to be enveloped in a vast white light, and disappear. In the distance the shield he had thrown up against Arthas still held, if only for the moment, giving the army the chance to make its retreat.
"Let us find peace in this troubled land, and I shall explain everything too you, including where your master first got his ideas for this war" the dragon barked out, flying off into the vast, frozen wilderness toward the west.
Unknown Field, Northrend
They had landed safely, the dragon hopping along on his three uninjured limbs. Dethal had seen the army-or the little remnant of it- to safety, and now on a field adjacent to the place where the army had teleported, Dethal and the dragon had found refuge from the Scourge's persistent forces.
"Hurry…give me strength to still heal your master. There may be a chance for him yet" the dragon insisted. Dethal nearly retorted, sure of his master's soon to be death. Even with the help of the Holy Light or a paladin or priest, it would be night impossible to bring Alaric back to the living now.
"Your spell of stasis soon expires…if you wish to save him, you shall give me your strength so I can save his life"
"As you wish, but I know there is no hope for him now" Dethal said, sliding himself and using spells of levitation to ease the injured body of Alaric to the ground.
Once done, he began channeling what little energy he had left in him to the dragon, whom in turn turned to the body of Alaric, opened his great blue eyes, and let force an aura of golden magic. The gaping wound in Alaric's stomach began to close in on itself, the flesh and tissue sowing itself back together, invigorated by the burst of life from magic.
"He will never be the same. The blade scarred his body as it did his soul. He will not be the same person you knew. Though the same person, he will be…hardened by this war and his wounds" the dragon replied, eyeing Alaric's rapidly healing body.
Suddenly, Alaric sat up and coughed a torrent of blood that had accumulated in his throat. Gagging, he began to kneel, and get up, beginning to notice his surroundings.
"What? How…" he said weakly.
"Milord!" Dethal cried out "The dragon saved us, just in time as well! Arthas was about to finish me off when this great blue descended upon him, and we were able to escape with your injured body!"
"Arthas? Damn him! The bastard bested me in an equal duel…if only…" Alaric said, still not noticing the dragon.
"SILENCE MORTAL!" the dragon boomed, getting the attention of Alaric and Dethal.
Alaric stood, blasted away by the new foe. "It is I…the Prophet that guided your hand to this moment"
Confusion swept through Alaric as the dragon's great form began to ripple, and diminish into a stooped, old, human figure. "By the Light!..." Alaric muttered.
"I am Drur'shan, First Son of Malygos, Father of the Blue Dragon Flight. It was foreseen by the Aspects that in these years to come, the Scourge, and in turn the Burning Legion, would grow too powerful to defeat, and so I was set forth as the avatar of their will, to start a war to destroy the Scourge, or at least weaken it to the point where it had not the power to overrun Azeroth, jewel of the Titans. As this foolish world is, dragons are seen as brutish animals with no minds. I could not myself lead an army. Even in human form, I would have been discovered by you mortals, and so I decided upon a more covert way to end the Scourge…you, Alaric Faltron'Quel"
Alaric stared out, the events of the past few hours zapped out of his mind, memory filling his mind. "You…you are the one that told me of the Waters of Eternity! You are the one that began all this! You-" Alaric cut himself off, allowing the dragon prophet to continue.
"Yes…I…all those months ago it was I who first told you of the Waters. It was I who told you that you were to embark on this crusade to rid the world of the evil of the Scourge, fueling your hatred and despair. And now things come full circle. Though you were not able to defeat the Scourge, you have weakened it substantially. By destroying countless litch lords, death knights, and soldiers, and by taking away control of many of their lands, destroying Icecrown, and more, you have nearly destroyed the Scourge, and would have done so had you chosen carefully your maneuvers during your fight with the damnable Litch King"
"I…is there any way to still defeat him? We can still go back, transport ourselves back, destroy the Scourge! There is still time" Alaric said, thought rising.
"No…the Litch King is weakened himself, the loss of his tower taking much of his power away, more than I or even he anticipated. And it would be suicide to return anyway. I myself tried to best him, and even I, the son of an Aspect, was humiliated before him, even in his weakened state. No, the war is over, and its goals have been accomplished, for now at least"
"For you and your vaunted dragon Flights at least!" Alaric shot back, anger rising in him. He stood directly in the path of the great dragon. "Your people's blood has not been shed! Your lands have not been lost! The Scourge will regroup and come at us again! When the last reports from Lordaeron came, the Scourge had pushed back our armies, taken back the lands we reclaimed from them. How is that a victory? And he still has one of the Vials!" Alaric nearly screamed out.
"My people's blood has been shed!" the dragon retorted. "We, the blue dragonflight have suffered longer than you have against the Litch King! We first inhabited Northrend, not he. And he took all that away from our flight, just now beginning to recover from our first destruction. And as to victory? I never said it was victory. What it has given you, and I, all of us, is time; time to prepare, time to properly organize ourselves to hold back the Scourge and Burning Legion, time to fight again. As to the stolen Vial…I made sure no one will ever see its contents again"
Alaric began to understand, seeing that in its weakened state, the Scourge could and would do little to try and unleash its now much diminished power against the world. It would just sit in the land it had accumulated, slowly gathering its forces…slow enough to allow the other side reprieve. The Scourge would never be the same.
Alaric nodded in agreement now, fully understanding what the sacrifice meant. "What must I do now to continue to serve the people of Azeroth" Alaric said, making no distinction between Horde or Alliance
"It shall fall to you, Alaric'Quel. Using the powers of the Waters, you continue on this mission until your dying day as has been foreseen by me. You shall be at the very front of the fight against the Scourge and Burning Legion. Your part in this world…"
Daggercap Bay
Alaric, Dethal, and a small contingent of Blood Elves stood at the edge of the retreating army.
"Milord…I do not understand" Dethal said in despair.
"Nor do you have to. The blue explained much to me, much more than his words said for themselves. It has not been in vain Dethal, this fight, this war, it has brought the Scourge down a peg from invincible to at least a slim chance of defeat on their part. We can still win, but to do so we must have help, Dethal…" he replied, ageless elven voice seemingly airy like a sprite.
Dethal stood utterly confused.
Alaric pulled out one of the three remaining Vials, poured it against the ground, waved a hand, and immediately a ripple tore in the air before them. A huge portal now stood in their midst, its chaotic magic twisting and writhing as it was tamed by Alaric's spell.
"I travel to Outland, Dethal…I leave you in control of this force. In my absence, you are to create a force dedicated to fight the evils in and outside of this world. Whatever it may be, I expect it ready by the time of my return"
Alaric let out a rare natured smile, and handed Dethal the hilt of his shattered blade along with one of the two remaining Vials. "I recovered it and hid it under my cape as the battle went sour against the Litch King" he said, pointing to the blade " There are now two Sunstriders left that we know of on this world. I, and Eldin Sunstrider. We know not where Eldin is, as he never journeyed with us in this battle. I am now to leave, to find Kael'thas and whatever forces may help us that are on the ruins of Draenor that is now called Outland. I give you this blade, Quel'Barrar, the High Sword, given to me by my father and his father to him. I leave you as the commander of this force, the responsibility of creation this new fighting unit, and as the Regent Lord of Quel'Thalas and any Blood Elves that still follow the Great Pine Tree Banner. I shall see you win time. May the Light forever be with you my friend…"
And with that, Alaric breathed deeply, a determined look on his slanted eyes, his last breath of air from Azeroth, and boldly stepped through the rippling portal, and out of view.
In seconds, the portal closed in on itself forever, leaving Dethal and the few surviving Blood Elves of the Expedition and War surrounding him.
Suddenly, one fell to his knee in front of the dazed Dethal.
"I, Duran Talonfist, accept you as my liege and lord, to die for and live for!" he let out in Sin'drassi, the language of the High Borne. And so the others followed, kneeling, prepared for orders from their new liege.
This force you seek shall be committed by the time you return milord…until then…and until that day comes I shall watch over the Blood Elves for you…his thoughts echoed.
Daggercap Bay
Upon a small hill Genn Blackswift watched as the small spit of men continued to trudge through the snow, all covered in grime and blood. Behind them they left a trail of dead, either from exhaustion from battle and now this long march to the sea, or wounds from the battle itself.
His regiment…simply didn't exist any more. Neither, frankly, did the army. They were more of a mobocracy now than an army. He had the head counts, after being promoted to Lieutenant of the Corps, since so many above him had died. The titles were still murky, but command of the host had now been split in a triumvirate between the Night Elf, Barak Demonlasher, the Stormwind Commander, Marcus Jonathan, and the Blood Elf, Dethal.
Of the twenty five thousand that began the final battle on Northrend, little more than two thousand were able to walk. Those that could not walk were carried in stretchers.
"Defeat, damned defeat…" he muttered, gazing out across the pristine skies.
"I don' think so laddie" a heavily accented voice behind him spoke up. "We should them Scourge boyos good…real good" Belgarlan said with a smirk. "As I've heard, we weakened em' right up, they ain't even able to chase us now"
"Maybe…the ages will decide good Dwarf" Genn replied. "As for now…we're going home"
Across the field that had carried their battle four weeks ago, the grand fleet lay in wait to take them back home, across a glittering sea.
(And so it ends, the final true chapter of War of the Ruins. Ladies and Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure writing for you all. I'm eternally thankful for the good reviews, the flames, all of it. This is the pinnacle of my writing, and it shall serve well as I continue my fanfics and stories. As for now, I am writing my own recounting of the Third War in Warcraft: The Third War, where I shall illustrate the events of the Third War from the eyes of many of the heroes, villains, and some unknowns as well. Regarding the defeat of Alaric against Arthas, when I began the writing of this story it was before World of Warcraft came out, and I wasn't sure of the lore aspects, and so I had to restrict myself. Sorry guys, I wanted to kill Arthas too . But on the other hand, I've left the story off with a cliffhanger to maybe one day continue during or after the storyline of World of Warcraft. There's still a short epilogue I'm going to add to this before it's all truly done where I shall again thank all of you, to sum up what exactly the War of the Ruins did, and the various events that took place over the course of the story. I shall see you all in the future, and once again, thank you all for the wonderful time and journey we've had through this story)