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Warcraft: Bones of Ironforge
Chapter 1: Embers of Hatred
In what would be Barin's last day in the mortal realm before dying a horrible (and very painful) death, a certain object lingered in his mind, consuming his every thought and emotion with the intensity of a wildfire.
Wheat.
Simple, bloody wheat.
Barin Rocknuckle, third son of Wurun Rocknuckle, and ever the zircon in his father's eye, had hoped to do better in life than his current lot. To mine for gems in the depths of Dun Morogh. To perhaps join the Explorers' League, travelling Azeroth to claim gold and glory. Hell, even joining the armies of Ironforge would have been a step up from this, because that at least meant using a hammer to hit things.
But no. Instead, he had wheat.
Simple, bloody, tasteless wheat.
Wheat that was imported from Stormwind. Part of a trade between Ironforge and the southern human kingdom that had lasted over a thousand years. Farmers provided wheat and wool, dwarves provided everything from weapons to raw ore. Goods would change hands, as would copper and gold. Drinks were drunk, songs sung, and then a trip back to Ironforge to deliver the goods before beginning the cycle all over again.
It kept the gears turning, or so Barin said to any lass he tried to pick up in Stonefire Tavern. If they were polite, they'd smile before taking an interest in some vagabond spinning tales of war and adventure. If they weren't, they'd point out that steam was what kept gears turning, that wheat was wheat, and nothing more. If he was particularly confident (or desparate), he'd point out that while Ironforge had underground greenhouses with sunlight reflected off mirrors to grow all manner of fruit and vegetables, you couldn't compare food grown under stone to food grown under sun. And if the humans wanted gems and guns, and were willing to labour under the Topaz Orb for it, who were the trade masters to argue?
Most times, the conversation didn't go beyond this point. And whatever the case, he was left with a bitter taste that wasn't just due to beer.
So here he was. Leading a column of nine dwarves and one gnome, mounted on his ram, Ugor, whose constant snorts indicated that he was as tired of this nonsense as he was. All under the fading light of the evening sun, its blood-red glow still visible beyond the peaks of the valley. Behind him were a pair of wagons being pushed by his fellow traders – dwarves who, for one reason or another, had ended up in this dead-end profession, and were resigned to see it through before departing this world. Before they met their ancestors in the next, and were forced to explain their life decisions.
A bird began to sing on a nearby tree, forcing Barin to grip his flintlock. And Yari must have seen him, because she came bounding up from the back of the wagon train, looked up at him like a child, and said, "sure is nice to hear birds, ainnit?"
Barin grunted, releasing his grip on the pistol. He'd heard more than enough birds in the lands to the south. It was a miracle that the humans hadn't killed them all by now to shut the blighters up.
"I like birds," Yari added.
Good for you.
"But hey, home soon, eh?"
Barin looked down at the gnome and pursed his lips, not sure whether he should smile, frown, or do something under the nebulous category of "other." Taking the third option, he instead looked down at the two feet, six inches of boundless energy, and chuckled.
"What?" Yari asked.
"Oh, nothing." Barin glanced back at the wagon train, and the dwarves pushing the wagons along. "Nothing at all."
In truth, he was glad to be able to tower over someone – a privilege that few dwarves enjoyed. Even on Ugor, it wasn't uncommon for him to only come face to face with humans in the southern lands, and while some children would run up to him, giggling and asking for clockwork toys, that didn't have the same joy to it.
Partly because they smelt of manure.
"It'll be nice to be home," Yari added, turning her gaze northward. "Someday…"
Barin frowned, and in one of the rarest moments of his life, felt pity for someone besides himself.
"But hey, tonight we're gonna make our delivery, and we're gonna get paid, and we're gonna pass out." She giggled. "Some sooner than others."
Barin didn't laugh – yes, dwarves could hold their drink better than gnomes, but his mind was on the notion of home. In the case of Yari and her kin, they'd lost their home, Gnomeregan, to troggs just months prior. Eighty percent of the gnomish race had been wiped out, and the survivours had retreated to Ironforge. Magni Bronzebeard had given Yari and her kind sanctuary in the dwarves' kingdom, honouring the bonds of fellowship that had been forged between the two races over the millennia. But what to do about Gnomeregan was a question that everyone had an answer to, but not the answer to. And with relations between the Alliance and Horde fraying by the day, the prospect of war within Dun Morogh in addition to the inevitable war without…hard enough to fight a war on one front, let alone two.
Barin ran a finger over his flintlock. War was terrible, yes. He'd lived through two of them while so many hadn't made it through even one, be it at the hands of the Horde, or later, the Burning Legion. But war, in all its glory, and all its horror, was still preferable to wheat.
He wondered if Yari saw it that way.
"You actually going to shoot something with that?"
Certainly not Mazran, who'd come walking up to his other side. Prompting Barin to holster it.
"Thought not." He spat on the ground. "Madoran's arse, I'm getting my own ram before our next adventure."
Adventure, Barin reflected. How quaint.
"And a pistol of your own, right?" Yari asked.
"What?"
The gnome made her way to the other side of the ram, so now that both were on Barin's left side.
"A pistol," she repeated. "Or a blunderbuss. Or an axe, or a sword, or anything to deal with the darkness in these lands."
Barin rolled his eyes. Mazran had once described Yari as their lucky charm, and it was at times like this that the one-eyed, eight-fingered veteran was vindicated.
"Mean, there's the Frostmanes," Yari added, a shadow passing over her pink eyes as she fingered the amulet around her neck. "And the troggs…"
Barin laughed, and patted the gnome on the head. "You think too much."
Yari growled, though coming from her, it was more like a squeak. "You can't ever think too much," she protested, her cheeks turning the colour of her hair.
Barin rolled his eyes.
"And you've heard the stories, right? Some necromancer operating out here?"
"Necromancer?" Mazran asked. "This far south?"
Yari remained silent.
"Sure your cogs ain't comin' out yer ears?"
"Hey, all I know is what I've heard," Yari protested. "People disappearing, bodies not being found, green glowing lights…"
"Right. And none of that could be anything other than a necromancer," Mazran sneered.
Yari's cheeks reddened even further. "I'm just saying…"
Barin looked up at the adjacent cliff face. A rock tumbling down it…
"Trust me kiddo, any body not being found here is more like the ice trolls getting their bellies full."
He fingered his pistol, just in case.
"Or wolves," Mazran added. He chuckled, slapping his right arm. "Not much meat left here though."
He'd bought the pistol from a merchant in Stormwind. It was of dwarvish make, but had traded hands at least a dozen times, before ending up in the human's possession. It had cost him a fair amount of copper, but damn it, even if he was transporting wheat, he could at least have some kind of status symbol.
And protection also. The Third War might have ended, but Azeroth was still plenty dangerous for all its races.
"You shouldn't be laughing about it," Yari said, continuing her argument with Mazran.
"Little one, I'll laugh at what I want, because by Magni's beard, there isn't much to laugh about these days."
Ugor sniffed.
"Plenty of stuff to laugh about," Yari retorted. "Just not stuff like that."
Ugor began to not only sniff, but snort, vapour coming out of his nostrils. Frowning, Barin leant forward and began to rub his neck.
"Hey, boy…"
"Listen, kid, once we're back in Ironforge, you can tell people what to laugh at, and how. But until then, I'm going to-"
Barin never found out what Mazran was going to do. As the green fireball came down from the cliff, hitting his cloak and setting it ablaze…laughter became a distant concept.
After all, that was when the slaughter began.
Mazran, screaming, as he struggled to remove the burning cloth.
Yari, crying out, trying to help him.
Ugor, trying to bolt. Moaning.
The entire caravan stopping. The traders shouting. As from the crag, came creature of bone, wielding iron in fleshless hands.
Skeletons.
Lots of skeletons.
Skeletons of dwarves, mainly, with a few humans, gnomes, and even trolls thrown in.
A dozen of them. And almost certainly not coming for their wheat.
Barin looked at his dwarves, gathering everything from hammers, to shovels, to anything that could protect them from the undead.
They looked at him. Their leader. Awaiting orders. Terror in their eyes.
"We-"
He never got a second word out, as a second fireball sailed through the air. Hitting the snow before Ugor, incinerating it. Ugor let out a moan, and barreled off, kicking Barin off his back. Fleeing into the snow, leaving his rider to die.
"Ugor!"
Part of him wanted to kill his ram then and there for betraying him. The other part realized that Ugor probably had the right idea.
A skeletal troll bound towards him. He cursed as he fired the pistol. The smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils as the bullet shattered the creature's skull. The now headless skeleton fell back into the snow.
Over ten more continued to charge.
"We…" He stumbled to his feet, desperately reaching for more shot. "We…"
He looked around. Mazran, struggling to fight with a dirk, before a trio of skeletons impaled him. His blood staining the snow.
Yari, screaming and squirming on the ground, as a skeleton tackled her. Biting her throat, its broken teeth still able to tear through her flesh. Tearing off her amulet through chunks of muscle and blood.
His men, stumbling, shouting, fighting…the undead shrugging off all but the most mighty of blows, while their blades pierced dwarven flesh.
"We…have to…"
He didn't yell, as the skeleton's sword impaled his gut. He just stood there. Looking at the pool of red spreading across his tunic.
"Have to…we…"
He thought of his father, and how he'd never have to be disappointed in him again.
He thought of his brothers, wondering if they'd ever find out what happened to the runt of the Rocknuckle family.
"Have to…have to…"
As he fell into the snow, the light fading from his eyes as sure, he thought about the cloaked figures standing on the ridge above.
Wondering if they'd make any use of the wheat.
"Yes! Slay them! Kill them! For the Scourge!" Toren looked at Bartlett and Russ either side of him. "Have you ever seen something so magnificent?"
"No sire."
"Of course not sire."
"No," Toren smirked, beholding the scene of death before him. "Of course you haven't."
From the crag, the necromancer looked down at his skeletons slaughtering the dwarves below. It had taken weeks of planning for this, he reflected. Weeks of plundering graveyards, digging up corpses, using his necromantic powers to convert them into skeletons. Many of them had disintegrated, his magic unable to hold them together for longer than a few minutes, but this dozen, a hodge-podge of skeletons of various races, brought together to serve their master?
It was glorious.
"Come!" Toren declared. "Let us walk through the valley of death."
Neither of the acolytes responded. From beneath their hoods, they cast furtive glances at one another.
"Do you fear death?" Toren asked. "Do you believe it to be the end?"
Again, the acolytes remained silent.
"Well?!"
"No master."
"Absolutely not."
"And quite right you are." He tapped his staff. "Onward!"
He fought the urge to skip across the snow – that was Coldridge Valley for you he reflected, the snow remained all across the year. Khaz Modan was just south of the equator, and being mid-year, it was winter. Yet even at the height of summer, the snow always remained here, as eternal as the mountains themselves. Mountains that the dwarves called home – content to stay inside their stone fortresses while the world froze outside. Fools as they were, they wouldn't see the darkness that was coming for them until it was too late. When he, Toren Snapjoint, master necromancer and favoured servant of the Lich King, stood upon a hill, declared that their time of life was up, and that…bad things would happen, or something.
Perhaps he'd have a speech planned, but it was academic. The dead had no ears.
He laughed as he beheld the unfolding slaughter – only three dwarves were left now. One with a hammer, one with a shovel, one with a pair of axes, screaming like a madman as he fought against the skeletons. One of those axes contacted with bone, causing it to disintegrate (the bone, not the axe, Toren noted). The damn things just weren't stable enough. Still, that didn't stop one of the skeletons from bringing its dagger across the dwarf's cheek, before in turn, disintegrating, leaving only a skull. The dwarf in question kicking it away before the bone crumbled in mid-air.
"Hoi! Dwarf!"
The bearded maniac glanced at him.
"Think you're tough, eh? Hah! You're dead and you don't even know it!"
The dwarf let out a scream…or was it a curse? Toren didn't speak Dwarvish. He didn't know any language other than Common. His old tutors at Dalaran had stressed that any man of culture should learn at least one other language in his life, but those old fools hadn't appreciated that his genius lay in fields aside from linguistics, and it wasn't as if the Scourge needed tongues, and oh shit, the dwarf was coming towards him, still screaming stuff that he didn't understand.
"You attack a necromancer of the Scourge? Fool!" Toren began chanting. "Et fiat tibi claudum…"
The dwarf continued to charge.
"Morabor…nunc…"
The dwarf continued to scream.
"Toren?" one of his acolytes whispered.
"Ita genium eam morabor," Toren said, green light finally appearing in his hand. "Morabor!"
The dwarf lunged at Toren. The necromancer screamed and fell back into the snow. Only through the grace of his acolytes was the murderous creature stopped in its tracks. As it leapt through the air (showing remarkable grace for such a squat creature), it was held back by his acolytes' staves, catching him in mid-air, and pushing him down onto the snow.
"Morabor! Morabor!"
The dwarf spat, which would be its last action in life, before a skeleton plunged a sword through his forehead. His corpse fell upon the snow, turning a red as the liquid escaped his skull, darker than that of the fading sun's light.
"Thank you," Toren whispered to the skeleton.
The creature of bone looked at Toren through empty eye sockets, before crumbling into dust.
Don't be silly Toren, skeletons can't hear.
The necromancer got to his feet, looking at the corpse, and the white-brown dust that had fallen atop it. He looked at his acolytes. "Well done, my subjects."
Bartlett (or was it Russ?) lowered his hood (definitely Russ, Toren reflected), and said, "did something go wrong?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your magic. It looked like you were trying to charge a cripple spell, but-"
"Try? I mean…hah! Try," Toren chuckled. "A test. Nothing more."
"Um…"
"Besides," Toren said, gesturing a hand to the sight before him. "The skeletons have done their work."
Neither of the acolytes said anything. And actually looking at what he'd gestured to, Toren could sort of, maybe, hypothetically, possibly, see why.
All the dwarves were dead. But every skeleton who'd done the killing had disintegrated. His necromantic sorcery had worn off, and now, all he had was ten corpses, two acolytes, and no skeletons.
For a moment, silence lingered in the valley.
"Victory!" Toren declared.
But only for a moment.
"The living have fallen to the Scourge!" He laughed, tapping his staff on the ground, and bidding his acolytes to follow. "Come! Let us walk in triumph!"
It was indeed a victory, he told himself. One of many that would occur in the months and years ahead. The Scourge would take this land, as it would all lands. He would establish a beachhead for them to take Ironforge, and seize these lands from north to south. To reclaim what the Scourge had lost to the Dark Lady's rebels, and bring undeath to lands never ravaged by it, from Khaz Modan to Stormwind, to the Blasted Lands themselves.
But for that to happen, he needed an army. For an army, he needed corpses. And that, at least, his skeletons had provided him.
"Beautiful," he whispered, beholding the bodies before him, their blood staining the snow like wine. "Absolutely beautiful."
One of the bodies coughed, its head looking up at him. Letting out a shriek, Toren brought his staff down on the dwarf's head. A loud crack echoed throughout the evening air.
"Like I said, beautiful," Toren said, running his hands over his robes, trying to steady his breathing. "Absolutely divine."
The dwarf let out a soft breath, before Toren hit him in the head again. And again. And three more times for good measure.
"Take heed, my servants, for this is the first of many victories," Toren said. "We have planted the banner of the Scourge." He frowned. "Or we would have if someone hadn't left the banner in the cave."
Russ lowered his head in shame.
"And now," Toren said, as he looked over the bodies (making sure that the dwarf he'd hit definitely wasn't moving), "behold, as our ranks swell. Behold the magic of necromancy. Behold the power of the Scourge."
He tapped his staff six times, before holding out his right hand. Forehead creased, sweat appearing on his brow despite the evening chill, he began to chant.
"Spiritibus mortuorum, audite me…"
Silently praying that this time, his magic would be cast without a hitch.
"Spiritibus mortuorum, audite me…"
The chanting thing was such a drag – many great mages in Dalaran had been able to pull this off without words.
"Spiritibus mortuorum, ad mundum vivorum…"
But then, those bearded geysers had conspired to hold him back, so was it any wonder his magic didn't always work?
"Spiritibus mortuorum, surge!"
His hands glowed green. Russ and Bartlett leant forward. And the bodies of the dead remained in place.
"Master?" Russ whispered.
A bird began to sing from some wretched tree, as the lightshow continued, but the dead remained in place.
"Spiritibus mortuorum, surge," Toren whispered.
The dead continued to lie on the ground, even as the bird continued to weave its song.
"They're not moving," Bartlett said.
"No, really?!" Toren snapped. He creased his forehead even further, and clearing his throat, uttered, "spiritibus mortuorum, sur-"
The bird screeched and flew away, as a wave of necromantic magic extended from Toren's hand. The scent of death washed over them, causing Toren to stagger backwards, and one of the acolytes to retch.
He'd have taken the time to discipline him, if not for the glorious sight unfolding.
Corpses, twitching on the ground. Slowly getting to their feet. Their flesh rotting before his eyes, carrying the pungence of spoiled meat. Their rotting eyelids aflutter.
"Yes…" Toren whispered. "Serve your master. Serve him in unlife. Serve him, unto the ending of the world!"
The dwarves began to stumble forward. Their wounds inflicted at the hands of the skeletons all the more visible. There was the sound of a wet 'thunk,' as an arm fell upon the floor.
"You have been raised to serve the Scourge," Toren said. "You have been raised to serve me."
One of the dwarves' heads lulled to the side, as the muscle around its neck continued to disintegrate.
"You will fight for me. You will kill for me. You will ensure that everyone in this land, nay, all lands, knows the name of Toren Snapjoint!"
The corpses just stood there.
"Now follow me, my children," Toren whispered. "Follow, march, and-"
The corpses fell apart. All at the same time, all in the same way. Leaving naught but bits and pieces of rotten meat on the ground.
Toren stood there. His servants stood there. From a nearby tree, a bird flew away. Tweeting as it went.
"Master?" one of his acolytes whispered.
Toren's mouth opened and closed like a fish. Or a rat. Specifically that rat he'd once caught in Dalaran and experimented on. Its little mouth opening and closing, as life had left its lungs.
"Master, they all fell apart," Russ said.
Toren glared at him. "Yes, thank you Russ, most informative."
"Actually," said Bartlett, "that one's still going."
"What?" Toren asked, unable to hide the joy in his voice. "Which one?"
"That one."
Toren stared, as a shambling gnome came his way. The right side of its throat had been torn out, and it was staring at him through unblinking eyes. Looking up at him, like a child.
Useless, he thought to himself. A gnome zombie. Useless!
"Isn't she sweet?" Bartlett asked. "I bet you-"
With a roar, Toren brought his staff down, cleaving the gnome's body in half.
"Every time!" he yelled, pacing back and forth. "Setbacks every time! Or the skeletons giving out! Or the zombies trying to attack me! Or ghouls…ghouls…damn it, I don't have any ghouls! This is= intolerable! This is…is…" He took a breath, and looked at his disciples, forcing a smile. "Well, let it not be said that great sorcerers don't suffer setbacks from time to time. We did, after all, use our minions to take out a convoy of heavily-armoured dwarves."
The acolytes nodded.
"Who fought bravely, and heroically, as the warriors of Ironforge that they were."
The acolytes nodded.
"Whose bodies we leave to the crows, as we depart in victory." Toren tapped his staff. "To the Cave of the Dying! We must plan for the future!" He pointed his staff to the crag. "Onward!"
He began marching to his fortress, where he would plan his further conquest of Ironforge. Of the day when-
"Master?"
He looked back at Russ.
"Shouldn't we take the wheat? I mean, we're still mortal, and we still need to eat, and-"
"Yes, yes, of course," Toren snapped. "Light's sake…I mean, for Ner'zhul's sake, I shouldn't have to tell you what to do all the time." He chuckled at the thought of it. "Dwarves transporting wheat…must have been the lowest of the low."
Or not. They were, after all, warriors.
And hadn't he just achieved a victory against them?
Looking down at the departing necromancer and his lackies, Molus Blackburn came to the horrible realization that he was not only dealing with an exceptionally powerful death mage, but also an idiot. And that, as everyone of sound mind knew, was a disaster in the making.
Two years, he reflected. Two years since he'd left Blackrock Mountain to serve the Burning Legion directly. Two years since escaping the thumb of Ragnaros and the sycophants that served the fire lord. Two months since he'd entered the Kingdom of Ironforge, relying on his fel magic more times than he cared for, while searching for a lair from which he could cultivate a following to further the Legion's cause in this region. And two weeks of following this idiot, since he'd discovered that his preferred hiding spot had been taken by a necromancer.
A necromancer who served the Scourge. The Legion's betrayers.
"Two weeks," he grunted, as he made his way down to the corpses on the road below. Two weeks of tracing this so-called Toren Snapjoint (Snapjoint! Bloody hell…) pillage graveyards, raising the dead as his servants. Not even bothering to hide his tracks as he left the graves empty behind him. He'd watched the necromancer struggle with his spells, before unleashing his magic in bursts of energy, reanimating multiple corpses at a time.
Powerful, yes. But sloppy. And anyone with a keen eye might raise hair above said eye as to why graves were being emptied.
And now, Molus reflected as he came to a stop by the bodies, Toren was attacking traders. And as happy as the son of Deucalion Blackburn would have been to see dead Bronzebeards under normal circumstances, that was missing the cliff face for the boulder. The idiot had not only failed to resurrect the dead, but had left their bodies to rot. He hadn't even moved them off the road.
Yes, crows could pick at their bodies, bandits could loot them for coin, and ice trolls might enjoy the taste of putrefied dwarf flesh, but the dwarves of Ironforge would notice their disappearance sooner or later. And considering how the Mountaineers patrolled this part of Dun Morogh, quite likely sooner.
If they haven't discovered the bastard's work already. Molus shook his head. He'd followed Toren for the last two weeks, but not every hour of every day. There was every possibility that this wasn't his first attack, and if this wasn't, there was nothing to suggest that he'd covered his tracks on those occasions either. Chances were Ironforge was already aware that there was a necromancer operating in their lands. And if the Bronzebeards were on the lookout for dark magic, they'd be just as likely to look out for fel magic as well. Yes, the Alliance and Horde alike had pressed warlocks into service since the Legion's failed invasion, but a warlock they couldn't control was a warlock they wanted dead.
The Dark Iron spat, before whispering words not meant for mortal ears. Words that cast a violet circle around him, displaying runes that would be unreadable for any not schooled in demonic lore. And above him, a tear in the fabric of reality itself, between the mortal realm and the Twisting Nether. A gateway from this world to the domain of the Legion. To the realm of demons.
Summoning was like a fish luring in a shark, with the goal of bending the shark to its will. Doable, but risky. Yet the rewards of such a risk…
"Master."
In this case, the reward of an imp. A goblin-like creature, but not of this world, and far more cunning. In this case, a creature of grey skin, yellow eyes, needle-like teeth, and claws, with the clear desire to use them.
"Salic," he said.
The imp's nose twitched at the mention of his name. Among mortals, a sign of respect, even friendship, but between a warlock and his familiar, a sign of control. There was no love between him and Salic. Loving a demon, even the lowest of the low, would get you killed, at best. At worst…
Molus nodded to one of the corpses. "Eat up."
"Master feeds demon?"Salic chuckled. "Master so kind."
Molus smirked. Kindness. Love. Emotions that served Dark Irons poorly, and warlocks even less so. But a few crumbs here, a few corpses there, and Salic would serve him when the time came. Be it on the day where the sky once more rained fire once more, or before then.
After removing a branch from a nearby tree, Molus began chanting more words in a language that Salic understood easily, fel fire appearing in his palms. Wielded with a precision that the necromancer lacked, he set the branch ablaze with a green flame, before setting the torch to the wagons and remaining bodies. By the morn, there would be no sign of the necromancer's attack, and while those of sharp mind might detect the use of fel magic, by using the branch, he could make it look like regular arson. Toren might not have covered his tracks, but he, Molus Blackburn, would.
"Master burns,"Salic sniggered, as he continued to eat the body of what looked like a gnome. He looked at the fire, then his master. "But unburnt flesh still tasty."
"Delighted to hear it," Molus murmured, turning his back to the fire and his eyes to the hill that Toren had climbed, heading back to his lair. "Absolutely bloody delighted…"
A bird landed on a nearby tree and began to twitter away. One white of feather, grey of beak, and loud of song. Trying to shut the damn thing out, Molus concentrated on the task at hand. He'd cleared up Toren's mess this evening, but what of the night after? And the night after that?
Killing him was the simple answer, but achieving that not nearly as much so. Toren was powerful. Incredibly powerful. Thankfully, his control over that power was clearly lacking, but it would only take one blast of that power to make Molus his undead slave. The idea of serving the Scourge, and their king who had betrayed the Legion…he would sooner let Salic have his soul.
"Master not looking happy. Master keeping poor Salic tormented."
"Go to Hell, Salic."
"Is that an order, master? Salic is liking tasty gnome flesh, and wishes not to return to the Nether."
Molus grunted, and the bird continued to sing, until he cast a ball of fire in its direction, shutting it up forever.
Silence. Finally.
He could leave Khaz Modan, but he'd spent two months roaming these lands, he didn't want to spend any more of his life running and hiding before getting down to the business of serving the Legion. So that left the options of taking on Toren himself, or going to the Mountaineers or Ironforge itself. Get the forces of King Magni to do his dirty work, before moving into the cave himself.
"Master not answer Salic. Master very quiet."
Questions, he reflected. Salic was asking them. Just as the forces of Khaz Modan would ask them as well. Asking too many questions in Shadowforge City would get you killed, and while the Bronzebeards weren't as hard as the iron they forged, they weren't fools. Traitors and usurpers, yes, but not fools. Even if he disguised himself, questions would be asked, and unlike his pet, he'd be obliged to answer them.
"Salic likes quiet master. Usually master tells Salic what to do. But Salic is enjoying-"
"Time's up, imp." Molus looked at the demon, its mouth open wide, its teeth stained with blood and rotten flesh. "I'm afraid you'll have to stay away for awhile."
"Salic go away? But master will miss Salic, will he not? He-"
Molus waved his hand. In a single instant, Salic was returned to the Twisting Nether, and the meat and bone of his feast set ablaze.
"I'm missing you already," he murmured. Shivering, before moving to the fire for what meagre warmth it could provide. Casting his gaze north. Up the road that led to Ironforge.
Take on Toren himself, or have the forces of King Magni kill the necromancer for him. Two options, each with more flaws than he had fingers.
But then, as he reminded himself, as a plan danced in his mind as surely as the flames before him, there was always a third option.
Always.
A/N
So, yes, as the name and premise suggest, this is a novelization/adaptation of the Bones of Ironforge RPG supplement for World of Warcraft: The Roleplaying Game. If you know what that is, that's pretty neat. If you don't, check WoWpedia (though that would spoil a lot). Anyway, hope it's decent.
Fun fact, there was originally a prologue before this chapter, but I cut it out. In part because it didn't really add anything (and coupled with having a POV character who dies in the chapter he's introduced in, it felt excessive), in part because the original prologue was comedic in tone, whereas as I wrote this and expanded the original outline, the overall tone of the story became much more somber. In the end, it just didn't fit.