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Chapter 11: War I

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Sylvanas

I received you letter, regarding you worry about your people and the Scourge. While it is a saddening fact to hear Quel'Thalas leaving the Alliance, I had relayed the same information to my father and Uther the Lightbringer - while they were skeptical, they had agreed to recruit more soldiers and shore up defenses...and actually listened.

While that is being done I do regret to inform, that Eastern Lordaeron is in a bad state: Andorhal, Brill, Heartglen are all being slowly rebuilt. Stratholme has currently tied up most of the relief effort, due to it being a critical city too important to lose. I hate to admit but at the moment, the only thing you can do IS to shore up your defenses, because I can't do much on my part...except lead an army to de-throne your idiot king...hehe...kidding..just trying to brighten you up...

...don't be afraid to write or visit, I still remember our time...even if it was on a ship. I still can't forget your warm smile, sunny-long hair, ruby lips...and your sky-blue eyes. Alright, don't be shy - I'm just over the border, if you need someone to hug. - A.

Sylvanas could barely contain her blushed face as she read it twice over. A good thing she read any letters in her private home otherwise she would have some explaining to do, chuckling as well at the idea of Arthas kicking Anasterian' ass - would that ever be a sight to see. Giving it a final view, before she let the letter catch fire on the candle and burn away - they had agreed to keep this a secret, so no holding onto letters for the common person to find.

Now she was left with a few thoughts to think out - one, what to write back and second, what to do to strengthen their borders? At that time she was thinking of maybe jumping the border to Lordaeron, because of now, she was just out of ideas and plans to protect against an enemy, who could assault at their gates forever.

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"Why in da name o' voodoo, should I listen to ya, winged mon?" asked the troll chieftain of the Amani, Zul'jin, ontop of his throne as leader of the mighty Amani tribe, once the great Amani Empire before the Troll Wars. Now a shell of their former selves, due to elves and humans. Zul'jin being one of them, missing an eye and arm, yet still strong in will and spirit. Across him, between many trolls stood a weird figure - it walked on hooves, had sharp, large claws and horns with red, scarred wings on his back - who had wished to speak with the Amani Leader.

"Because I, can offer you something you've always dreamed of," replied Tichondrius, not minding the fact that he was surrounded by hundreds of trolls. They would be easy to persuade.

"We haf everything we need winged-mon," said Zul'jin, dismissing his claim. "Wat can ya offer us?"

"Oh is that so?" chuckled the dreadlord, during towards the troll and then Zul'jin. "I suppose vengeance against the elves isn't required?"

Almost every troll in the vicinity grimaced at the mention of elves - they had come to their lands, stolen their lands, built their cities on sacred troll grounds and destroyed their mighty kingdom; it didn't need a reason, all Amani trolls hated the High Elves with a blood-vengeance.

"Yes, vengeance. The chance to spill elven blood is within your grasp, along with the destruction of their precious city. Just imagine it, elves screaming, drums roaring, battle-cries shouting," explained Tichondrius, preying on their lust for battle and blood. "The elves didn't defeat you, they just had the humans tie you up, you were out-numbered. In a real battle, the elves would lose for sure - you know this."

"Wat be ya offering us?" asked Zul'jin, getting to the point.

"A chance - you can stay here and let the elves bleed you dry and leave you to rot in your once great city or you can grasp the opportunity and fight with an army, that is unrelenting, fearless, tireless and merciless," spoke Tichondrius. "I can even give you a promise of this..."

"Prove it!" replied Zul'jin, ordering a dire-troll berserker to face against the dreadlord - strength mattered among trolls, did he speak the truth or just blow wind.

"Gladly!" said Tichondrius. Even before the troll could react, a red bolt of lightning had struck its chest - courtesy of Tichondrius, who merely watched as the mighty troll fell down dead in a heartbeat, its chest ripped apart by his magic spell; its renegeration useless against dark magic. He then waved his claws over the body, ressurecting the troll as his undead servant easily. Needless to say, the trolls were impressed...and fearing, having felt elven magic on their skin once. "This is only the beginning - our armies strengthen with every foe we slay. This is just a bare fraction of our real power, of our armies, this undead troll being an example - loyal, tireless and strong. Once this is over, you can expect every last elf to be killed...and turned into our undead slaves...forever!"

That last sentence had gotten a roar of approval from the Amani trolls - vengeance could be theirs and the elves enslaved would sit them just fine. Zul'jin on the hand, had been examining the scene unfold in front of him, a dire troll brought down with ease...then turned into an undead servant, with minimal effort. Such kind of magic was still hard to learn by the Witch Doctors and Voodoo Masters, and even they didn't work that fast. Zul'jin was intrigued.

"Dat be the case...okay winged-mon. Zul'jin will listen to vat you haf to say..." he replied, eager to hear about the dreadlord' plan or was it just feeling the battle-rush return to his old, mangled body.

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Back in Lordaeron, one Arthas Menethil was sitting in the Capital' large bell-tower, that over-looked their kingdom and city. Meditating next to the large iron-bell that rang each hour. He had been training hard, these last few days when he had returned from Ironforge, Athe'mar lying infront of him. Arthas had wielding the sword a couple of times and it cut through wood and hacked steel, as if only the wind held it back.

Currently he was remembering each and every person, who had died on his quest to Northrend - be they elf, dwarf or human; he recalled every face and uttered a prayer to the Light for each one. He wouldn't forget them - you learned from mistakes, but you should always remember those mistakes and Arthas did.

His new out-look on training and learning the Light didn't go noticed by his peers nor of his close relatives either.

"How long has he been there?" asked Terenas, eyeing the figure of Arthas against the setting sun.

"Four hours, if I'm not mistaking," replied Uther. "He is meditating there."

"Meditating?"

"Indeed, Arthas is taking the teaching of the Light to heart - once he was so willful, one-sighted, very competitive. Now he has done a complete reversal: he contemplates each move he makes, is more lenient, accepting and adapting. He even has gone through a variety of ancient tomes of the Light - wanting to learn old techinques and skills from there," explained Uther. "I've seen him fight as well, once he just beat his opponent to the floor...now he merely gestures their weakness, after he had won in a duel against them."

"He is growing into a King..." muttered Terenas. "...is he ready, old friend?"

"One time, I would have said not yet, he needed more time..." spoke Uther. "...but now, I would say he could handle duty, if you would pass away."

"It's a good thing to hear," replied Terenas, walking over to his desk. "I've had the weight on me for seventy years now; my Lianne passing away two years ago..."

"...are you dying, Terenas?" asked Uther worried.

"Not yet, dear friend. But I feel old, feeling it these last few days - guess its the Light showing me its soon time to pass on the mantle," said Terenas, rubbing his eyes. "...I am old..."

"...your not that old," replied Uther in good humour.

"I took the throne, when I was twenty-one and ruled for seventy years..." said Terenas. "...I'm not my young self anymore..."

"Yet here you have remained these years," replied Uther, as he eyed Arthas as well in the bell-tower - he was now convinced that Arthas could take up the King' mantle, yet uncertain how would he respond to any aggression against his people.

However a rapid knocking broke his pondering, and it was a franting one.

"Who is it?" asked King Terenas.

"Commander Falric of the Royal Guard's," replied the voice.

"Enter!" spoke Uther, as the Commander entered, wearing the decorated armor of the Royal Guards. Ever since Northrend, Falric had been awarded in rank - he was now Commander, with Marwyn being made Captain. But he had been entrusted with a far secret assignment from Arthas, one he hated to bring up now.

"I have to see Prince Arthas!" replied Falric, breathing heavily. "It's urgent!"

"What has happened?" asked Uther.

"Runner came! Undead! Spotted near Andorhal! In force!" gasped Falric, as he relayed the message. "I need to inform Arthas!"

"So it begins..." said Uther.

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A/N: The Third War has begun...can hope prevail?

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