Chapter 8 – Valor and Discretion
The tremendous roar continued to echo, somehow growing in intensity, as the wrath of the Lich King sent shockwaves through the icy continent. The very ground underneath their feet began to shake, and in the distance, a massive swarm of dark shapes flew into view, coming from the north – hundreds, maybe thousands of creatures.
"You… you..." Chromie stuttered, looking like she was having an aneurysm as her eyes threatened to bulge out of their sockets.
Next to them, Muradin watched on.
"I've got a bad feelin' about this..."
"So much for the so-called artifact." Clark remarked, wiping his gauntlets on each other. "I suppose I'll just have to find another way to smite that son of a-"
The utter perplexity gripping the disguised dragon eventually gave way to anger. With her eyes practically bulging out of their sockets, she glared at him.
"You… monumental… fool!" Chromie snapped. "Do you have any idea what you have done?!"
"Disposed of a bauble that could have cost someone very dearly?" Clark retorted.
"Even if you don't care about the way things are meant to be, you should at least have thought of your own safety." she hissed.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Clark asked, surprised by the sudden shift in her demeanor.
"Think!" she snapped again. "You've just literally defenestrated one of the greatest weapons in the Lich King's arsenal – one that was meant to deliver his greatest champion into his incorporeal hands. What do you think he's going to do now?"
"And how do you know this, exactly?" Clark asked, his suspicions rising again. "Who is this Lich King anyway?"
"You will find out soon enough." the gnome hissed. "And this time… this time I cannot save your skin, or you'll just break the timeline even further."
Muradin clenched his teeth, as some of Brann's stories came to the forefront of his memory and realization set in.
"Bloody 'ell..." he muttered, staring at Chromie.
"The timeline?" Clark asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"It's not like you'll have to worry about that." she retorted, her face a mixture of sadness and anger as she looked away. "You were never supposed to be here… and soon enough, you will no longer be."
"I cannot continue to shield him from the consequences of his actions..." she thought, trying to remain focused on her duty.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry things turned out this way." Chromie added. "You might have been able to live in relative peace if you had just stayed home at the farm, but I suppose that was never an option for someone like you."
"How do you know where I-" he tried to demand, but she ignored him.
"It does not matter." she cut him off, turning to leave before he could see the tears pooling in her eyes. "Anywhere else, you would have been any world's greatest hero. Here, you are just an anomaly that will send all of this spiraling out of control. Goodbye… Kal-El."
And in a puff of smoke, the gnome was gone, replaced by the bronze dragon he had encountered before.
"You..." he realized. "And what did you just call me?"
"For what it's worth, I really am sorry." she added, still with the squeaky high-pitched voice of a gnome. "The very least I can do is return your weapon."
And with that, she summoned his hammer out of the pocket dimension she had stored it in and allowed it to drop onto the snow, restored to pristine condition. With a drawn out sigh, she spread her wings and took flight, trying to get away as swiftly as she could.
"Don't look back… don't look back… don't look back..."
Still perplexed, but with no time to ponder what had just happened, Clark picked up his hammer and turned to face the approaching undead horde.
"I guess I've really done it this time…" he muttered to himself as the horde of frostwyrms.
"Aye." Muradin stated rather succinctly.
"Thank you..." Clark said. "One way or another, you helped put away a great evil, at least for now. You don't need to be involved in this any longer."
"The bloody 'ell you sayin' lad?" Muradin retorted.
"I can hold them off." Clark said. "You-"
"Not one more bloody word!" Muradin retorted, sounding offended by the notion as he readied his axe and warhammer. "Ya think this son of Ironforge is gonna leave a friend behind?!"
Dwarven pride, Clark realized, was as strong as that of any orc, despite the difference in stature.
"What about your men?" Clark asked.
"Already told 'em to bugger off to a beach down south." Muradin said. "They'll wait fer us as long as they can."
"I see..." Clark said.
While the orcs had raised him under a culture that valued unyielding bravery, Drek'Thar had also tried to teach him the value of wisdom. His adoptive parents and the Archbishop had tried to instill in him a sense of caution, to temper his recklessness once his abilities had begun to manifest… with marginal success. Still, in the face of the ever-approaching mass of gargoyles and frostwyrms, followed by the shambling masses of reanimated corpses, he realized one simple truth.
"I could take out a good chunk of them..." he reasoned, still remembering the pain of his earlier injuries. "But they've got magic on their side. After what I've seen here today… I can't let them turn me into one of them!"
"No point in leaving our bones in this frozen hell..." Clark said, turning to Muradin. "We have to let the Alliance know what is festering here."
More than the thought of turning his back on an enemy, more than the thought of allowing the damned to spread their filth one day longer, Clark hated the new, unfamiliar feeling crawling in his gut – helplessness.
"This isn't over..." he growled, glaring into the distance with clenched teeth.
Suddenly, something began to stir in the snow underneath their feet, and skeletal hands sprung forth, trying to grab them.
"Crud..." Muradin bellowed, barely dodging one of the grasping hands before smashing it to pieces with his hammer.
"We have to get out of here now..." Clark realized, spotting the gaunt forms of humans in tattered robes in the distance.
The cultists wasted no time. While some of them began to hurl bolts of shadow at the pair, a few others gathered in circles and the air grew thick with magical energy. The Archbishop had taught him about the Horde's warlocks and their summoning spells, and in the face of such overwhelming odds he did not want to wait and see what might pop out at them next.
One of the bolts found its mark, hitting Clark square in his left shoulder. For an instant, he nearly saw stars, and as the pain of feeling his flesh unravel spread across the area of impact, he switched his hammer to his left hand and grabbed Muradin by the back of his belt, hefting them up.
"Oi!" Muradin protested. "What's the bleedin' idea?"
Clark abruptly took off, letting out a wide burst of heat from his eyes as a parting gift and incinerating a group of cultists. He realized he had already dallied for too long as he felt the sting of another bolt striking his back. Unwilling to give the enemy the chance to strike a third time, he darted south through the sky, carrying the startled dwarf.
As he streaked southward through the sky, trying to ignore the pain, he flew over the tower he had spotted earlier.
"So much for the so-called keepers of Azeroth." he thought in annoyance, glaring at the structure but not bothering to stop. The fact that the dragonflights allowed the undead to plunder their sacred grounds with impunity still utterly baffled him, but he did not have time to dwell on such matters.
As he continued south, over the beach where a few transport ships were waiting by the shore, he momentarily stopped. Wooden, he realized, with some sort of dwarven steam engine providing propulsion instead of sails. It was probably the only reliable method of crossing the northern sea, with the added benefit of fighting off the bitter cold.
"Go on without us!" he bellowed. "Don't linger any longer!"
The dwarven and gnomish crewmen clearly heard him, as they fired up the engines in a matter of moments and lifted anchor.
Satisfied that his recklessness was not going to endanger anyone else, Clark let out a sigh and continued streaking through the sky, heading back south.
Some time later…
"Ya really poked the hornets' nest there lad." Muradin remarked.
"Guess I did." Clark admitted, still rather surprised at the unholy fury that throwing a sword into the sea had unleashed.
"What surprised me the most was the lass though." Muradin pondered. "Bronze dragons are supposed to be secretive. They dinnae usually reveal themselves like that. Then again, you're really not an average human either."
"I don't care about her prattle." Clark dismissively retorted. "People are dying. Stratholme is a pile of ash. A good chunk of the countryside is lifeless. What could possibly be worth allowing all of that to happen?"
"Dunno." Muradin admitted with a shrug. "The thing ya gotta remember about the bronze though… They can be as inflexible as stone. Ye're lucky this one just gave ya the slip instead of settin' up a nasty surprise."
"I don't get it though..." Clark silently pondered. "Kal-El? And why was she… crying?"
His musings were interrupted by Muradin's grumbling.
"Say lad…" the dwarf hesitantly said. "A wee breeze like this won't bother me, but do ya think ya could… fly a little lower?"
Only then did it dawn on Clark that not only most people couldn't fly, but their bodies were also not prepared to handle the temperatures and the freezing winds of the upper atmosphere.
"Right… sorry…" Clark hesitantly muttered as he began a controlled descent.
"Don't get me wrong." Muradin said, trying not to betray his discomfort. "We Ironforge dwarves drink lava and crap diamonds… but after such a bloody long day we could both use a breather and a pint."
Clark pondered whether he should rub the dwarf a little or hold his piece, until he abruptly spotted the form of ships on the horizon. Two dozen, at least, equipped with sails and steam engines, and bearing the flags of Lordaeron and the Silver Hand.
"They didn't..." Clark muttered to himself as he swept across the ships with his inhuman sight.
Recognizing familiar faces, he descended upon the deck of the lead ship, landing in front of a very surprised Uther.
"Clark?" the Highlord of the Silver Hand called out. "What…?"
"I guess… there's no point in hiding this anymore..." Clark said with a sigh. "Yes, I can fly. You have already seen some of the other things I can do in Stratholme."
Arthas glanced in his direction and recognized a familiar face, still dangling from Clark's hand.
"Muradin?"
"Aye..." Muradin grumbled, before turning to Clark. "Ye can put me down now, lad."
Realizing that he was still carrying the dwarf by the belt, Clark gently set him down on the deck.
"Sorry..."
"I need a bloody drink..." Muradin grumbled, before glancing around. "Where's the liquor cabinet around here?"
"Sorry to disappoint, old friend..." Arthas said with an amused smirk. "But the Silver Hand frowns upon drinking on duty."
"An' that's why you'll never grow a beard as glorious as mine!" Muradin retorted, stroking his bushy beard for emphasis before remembering that Uther was right there. "With some exceptions."
Now that he was no longer soaring through the sky at breakneck speed, Clark became painfully aware of the stench of necrotic flesh emanating from his wounds.
"After the poundings it took, it's probably going to take some serious work to get my armor back in shape..." he thought with a sigh as he began to unfasten the plates.
As the blackened pieces of plate armor began to clatter onto the wooden floor below, some of the other members of the Silver Hand on deck gasped in surprise at the sight of his chiseled chest and arms. Even with the necrotic wounds blackening portions of his skin, many found themselves unable to avert their gazes.
"Light's sake lad..." Muradin grumbled. "Put a shirt on! Yer makin' some of these blokes feel inadequate."
Jaina picked that exact moment to emerge from belowdecks, and froze in place at the top of the staircase, her train of thought momentarily derailed as a flash of crimson crept across her face. Arthas rolled his eyes and removed his cloak, draping it over Clark's shoulders to afford him a modicum of modesty.
"Good grief..." the prince thought.
"Oh..." Clark muttered, finally realizing what was happening. "I guess I wasn't thinking..."
The orcs that had raised him in his early years did not much care for human notions of modesty, and having lived in the sprawling fields of Hillsbrad with a family of farmers, he did not think much of baring his chest. He set about mending his wounds with the Light's golden glow, when his focus was broken by an exaggeratedly loud sigh, followed by the sound of a body hitting the deck.
"L-Lady Paletress!" a man cried out in alarm with an unusually high-pitched voice.
Regaining her composure, Jaina turned in the direction of the cry, in time to see a woman of light build clad in priestly white robes sprawled on the floor unconscious.
A few moments later, in a meeting room belowdecks…
"So what were you doing here?" Clark asked, much relieved after a meal and a change of clothes, as he sat at a large rectangular table with Uther, Jaina and Muradin.
"What do you think?" Arthas retorted with a touch of sarcasm. "Looking for you, of course."
"H-How many made it out of Stratholme?" Clark hesitantly asked.
"Not enough." Arthas said between clenched teeth, slamming his gloved fist on the table. "If you hadn't been there, it would have been even worse though."
"We have other problems..." Clark said with a sigh.
"Considering that we're dealing with a dreadlord, that's hardly surprising." Uther reasoned.
"There's someone else involved." Clark said. "I know very little about it yet, but Mal'Ganis and Kel'Thuzad did not act alone. There is someone else."
"What do you mean?" Jaina asked.
"First of all, let me say this." Clark said with a sullen expression. "You must not let anyone else near Northrend unless you bring an army."
"What?" Uther asked.
"From what I've seen so far, the continent is teeming with the undead." Clark explained. "Not just humanoids either. Monstrous spiders, flying demonic beasts… and worst of all… This Scourge is raising the bones of dragons in the Dragonblight."
"Unthinkable!" Uther gasped. "How could this have happened?"
"Northrend is still barely explored." Jaina pointed out. "We hear the occasional tale of pirate coves and exiles fleeing there. Explorers out to make their fortune. It's exceedingly difficult to get reliable news about what goes on in there."
"Two of those blasted undead dragons almost did me in." Clark said. "They have hundreds of those, maybe more."
"An' somebody or somethin' else is pullin' the strings." Muradin added.
"What do you mean?" Arthas asked.
"In my time up north I ran into Muradin and his men." Clark elaborated. "During that time I came upon a strange cave and a creepy sword encased in ice. They called it… Frostmourne."
"The bloody thing was cursed." Muradin added. "Who knows what it could have done to the fool who took it up? So the lad here..."
Then Muradin paused, struggling not to burst into laughter.
"The mad lad here grabbed the whole bloody thing… sword, icicle and pedestal... and chucked it all into the North Sea!"
"And that definitely got the attention of whatever creature rules over the undead." Clark said somberly. "This so-called… Lich King."
"The plot thickens..." Uther mused, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on his closed fist. "So the entire plague, this Cult of the Damned..."
"We probably wouldn't even know this much if not for the dragon lass." Muradin pointed out.
"Dragon?" Jaina asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Aye." Muradin said with a nod. "Pretendin' to be a wee gnome of all things. Boy did she flip when the lad here chucked the sword. She went on a rant about the way things were supposed ta be and left us there."
"If the Dragonflights are involved..." Jaina pondered with alarm. "This could be too big for us to handle alone."
"We have to turn the fleet back." Uther reasoned. "We are not prepared to deal with this."
"As much as I hate the thought of turning my back on those foul fiends..." Arthas grumbled. "We're going to need to think this through."
"You've changed..." Jaina thought as she glanced at the prince. "You used to be so reckless…"
She found herself studying his pensive expression.
"You're trying to hold himself together through all of this… put on a brave face..." she realized, already more than familiar with his moods.
She then turned to Clark and saw the same grim determination… along with something else.
"And what about you?" she thought with a pang of sorrow as she recalled his outburst in Stratholme. "To have seen the things you have and not cracked? You may seem like a man of steel, but you're as human as the rest of us."
Jaina had the nagging feeling that the two young men would be the source of much concern for her in the days to come.
"Mother did say that these things are never easy..." she thought with a resigned sigh. "But are we looking at a Third War, after everything we've endured?"
The members of the Silver Hand and the soldiers of Lordaeron were understandably disappointed to see their mission end so soon, but nonetheless they were thankful for Clark's warning.
Some time later, on the deck...
"That was… quite sensible of you after those outbursts from earlier." Arthas remarked as he stood in front of the railing with Clark and Jaina by his side. "No offense."
"None taken." Clark said with surprising humility. "My temper almost got me killed, and I'll be damned if I let others get in harm's way because of it."
"This could have ended very badly for everyone involved." Jaina said. "But it's not over yet."
"You can be sure of that." Arthas said, gripping the hilt of his hammer, the aptly named Light's Vengeance.
"I was worried Clark's temper might be a bad influence on Arthas..." Uther mused as he watched the trio. "But it looks like he got a glimpse of how he looks when he acts without thinking."
Feeling the weight of the years on his back, the Highlord retreated to a strategically located stool.
"I'm getting too old for this..." he thought bitterly. "But at least… at least I can make sure that Arthas will be the king his people need."
He still felt some lingering resentment towards his old mentor for concealing Clark's existence from him, but he understood his reasoning on some level.
"Maybe I've spent too much time in the court, surrounded by intrigue and politics." he mused. "Maybe I shouldn't have treated the crown prince like the son I never had…"
He took a deep breath and steadied himself.
"But I don't have time for regrets now. All I can do is make sure he is prepared for the dark times ahead. Those two… Those two are going to achieve great things together, I know it."
Meanwhile, on a small sandy atoll halfway between the Eastern Kingdoms and Northrend...
"I thought I'd find you here." a man's voice said, breaking the disguised dragon out of her stupor.
"You..." Chromie muttered, back to her gnome form, as she glanced over her shoulder.
"Me." the Prophet said flatly.
"What do you want?" she grumbled, wiping a lingering tear from her face. "How did you even know I was here?"
"You are not the only one keeping an eye on the boy." the Prophet said before his face flashed the barest hint of a smile.
"I guess there's no point in trying to hide my nature from you." she conceded. "The question is… What do you want, Medivh?"
"I want you to consider how much longer you can continue doing this."
"What do you mean?" she asked, caught by surprise.
"I mean, if you know something is wrong, why continue to do it?" Medivh insisted. "Because someone ordered you to?"
"Even you are not beyond Nozdormu's reach, Guardian." she retorted. "Even you are a puppet of fate… just like I am. Just like all of us are."
"And yet, you hesitate." the Guardian of Tirisfal retorted with calm certainty. "Why is that?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." she said defensively.
"Oh, but you do." Medivh insisted, scratching his chin with a rather smug look on his face. "I too once thought the future could not be changed, and that all we could do was prepare for it. But that boy… that boy represents raw possibility."
"He does… and that's exactly why he shouldn't be in a place like Azeroth."
"That's exactly why he should be here." the Guardian retorted. "I grow tired of dancing to the tune of others. Of watching this world go through one catastrophe after another simply because the Titans or the Aspects decided it had to be this way."
"You know what will happen if you try to change things too much." she warned him. "I will not be responsible for whatever you bring down on your head."
"Then what?" Medivh countered. "Are you going to continue playing the obedient servant, enforcing plots you do not agree with, simply because your master intends things to be this way?"
"What other choice is there?" she asked, feeling her tiny hands shaking.
"As many as you want. How is it that you bronze dragons are the most inflexible and dogmatic of them all? You can be even worse than Neltharion's brood."
The remark wounded her more than she could have expected… especially since she realized the truth of it.
"And what exactly do you want from me?" she asked.
Meanwhile…
"I can't help feeling we're forgetting something..." Jaina pondered as she stood on the upper deck, looking into the seemingly endless blue expanse before her.
"Such as?" Arthas asked, still standing next to her.
At the exact same moment, somewhere in the Borean Tundra…
"Where in blazes is everyone?!" Kael'thas fumed.
He had insisted on going on ahead via teleport, in preparation for a dramatic entrance. Instead he had found biting cold, decrepit ruins and – worst of all – gigantic undead spiders. Then it had started snowing, and while Felo'melorn was quite a powerful artifact, brandishing it openly had the unfortunate effect of turning freezing slow into drenching rain.
His hair was drenched, his toiletry was running down his face and his robes would take days of washing in order to get rid of the stench of charred undead spider flesh. His opportunity to show his prowess was lost and his day was absolutely ruined.
As he pondered all of this and vented his frustration by unleashing a vicious fiery blast upon what had to be the thousandth of the accursed undead monstrosities, a shrill shriek pierced the air and a familiar bird, seemingly made of majestic crimson flames, swooped down, swatting away at the falling snow in an effort to salvage its master's dignity. As its wings impacted the snow, they kicked up plumes of steam.
"Let's go home Al'ar..." the prince finally grumbled. "Something's not quite right."
