Chapter 5: Conspiracies
Deep within the forests of Alterac, Arthas took his moment to think. He leaned heavily against the trunk of an ancient tree, the bark rough against his armored back. His eyes searched the darkness, seeing not the whispers of the night, but the faces of those he had lost—his people, his comrades, his own humanity. The burden of his secrets was a crushing weight, yet he knew that revealing his true intentions would only serve to shatter the fragile trust that Jaina and Falric had placed in him.
His memories whispered through the leaves, a constant reminder of his tainted lineage. "Can I truly save them," he murmured to the trees as if they would respond somehow, "without becoming what I fear the most?" The question hung in the air, remaining unanswered and leaving Arthas to wrestle with his conscience in the solitary confines of his thoughts.
Until something caught his eye walking along the path he was in. A robed figure walking by the same road near the trees as he does.
The Prince approached the mysterious figure with a caution, his hand resting on what appeared to be a staff. The figure's eyes gleamed with an eerie light as he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of ages. "You've come far, young prince," he intoned, his words cutting through the stillness of the night like a knife. "May I speak to you?
Arthas warily moved closer, feigning ignorance of his identity. The man's piercing gaze seemed to bore into the very essence of his being. "Are you whom they call the Prophet? The same one that gave warnings to the likes of the King and Grand Magus Antonidas?"
The prophet's smile grew knowing, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I am the one who warned your father, Terenas, of the coming storm," he revealed. "And have done the same to Antonidas." His gaze grew distant, lost in the mists of time. "But alas, my warnings fell on deaf ears. The world would pay a steep price for their neglect."
"Your words are cryptic, stranger," Arthas replied, his voice steady despite the conflict within, and this was his chance. Yet, in this moment, he could not reveal the truth of his own experiences with the very same prophecies. "Your warnings are indeed dire," he said carefully, "but what do they have to do with our current situation?"
The Prophet's eyes bore into Arthas, his expression inscrutable. "You carry a heavy burden, Prince of Lordaeron," he said, his tone low and resonant. "If you wish to save your people, you must look westward. There lies the salvation of your kingdom and perhaps, the world itself."
Kalimdor, he thought, a landmass that most didn't even believe existed. Where the Legion would make their way to Mt. Hyjal. Jaina had been there with a sizeable human expeditionary force when she listened to the Prophet. The only reason why the Legion had been defeated and of Archimonde's death in his previous life, was because the Alliance, the Horde and the Night Elves banding together to stop him.
"Your words are... troubling," Arthas stated while maintaining a calm demeanor to not give away his thoughts, his gaze never leaving the Prophet's. "But they do not fall entirely on deaf ears. The plague that came upon is a grave risk, one that acts as another piece of a greater puzzle made by them."
The Prophet nodded solemnly, the light in his eyes flickering like the flames of a candle in a storm. "You stand at a crossroads, my prince," he warned. "Choose wisely, for the fate of Azeroth hangs in the balance."
Arthas swallowed hard, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "Your warnings do hold merit." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Yet, as we stand, our immediate concern lies with the undead and the plague that ravages our lands. I would first have to deal with the blight before we could make our way west."
The Prophet nodded, his gaze softening. "Your priorities are wise, young Prince. Take the time you need, but you make haste once it is concluded." He leaned heavily on his staff, his eyes searching Arthas' soul. "Remember, the path you tread is one of destiny, and the choices you make now will echo through eternity. Do not let the whispers of the dead cloud your judgment."
The former Lich King would want nothing more than that last part to happen. He could not say wether or not a part of the Lich King remained with him when he was brought back or an internal delusion manifested by his memories.
Arthas' fists tightened, his eyes reflecting the moonlight's glow. "I will not," he assured him. "Once settled, I shall return to Lordaeron and inform my father of your words, hopefully he would see reason. We shall act with haste, but also with caution."
The Prophet's smile grew a touch sadder, as if he knew the trials the Prince would face. "Tread lightly, my prince," he said, raising a hand in a gesture of both benediction and warning. "The shadows are long, and the darkness has a way of creeping into even the most steadfast hearts."
Arthas nodded, feeling the weight of the world upon his shoulders. "I shall not forget your counsel," he assured the Prophet, his voice firm. "And when the time is right, I shall do all in my power to prevent the danger you foretell."
The Prophet nodded once, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a hint of satisfaction. "Then may the light guide your steps and your heart remain true," he said before turning away, his form turning into a large raven before flying away, leaving Arthas to contemplate the gravity of their conversation.
As Arthas made his way back to the camp, the shadows of the night grew thicker, the whispers of the forest seeming to echo the turmoil within his heart. The flickering light of the campfire grew brighter as he approached, casting an orange glow upon the sleeping forms of his comrades. Falric, ever vigilant, sat like a sentinel, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Arthas stepped into the warm embrace of the fire's light, the heat a stark contrast to the chilling revelations he had just received.
"Your Highness," Falric greeted, rising to his feet and offering a salute. His expression was one of concern, his eyes searching Arthas' for any sign of trouble.
Arthas offered a curt nod, his thoughts a whirlwind. "At ease, Captain," he said, his voice low. "Rest now. I will take the watch."
Falric's brow furrowed, his gaze unyielding. "Are you sure, my prince?" he asked, his words laced with unspoken worry. "You've had quite the evening."
The prince's eyes never left the dancing flames. "I have," he admitted. "But the night is not yet over, and we must be ready for whatever dawn brings."
Falric studied Arthas for a long moment before finally nodding, the lines of his face etched with the beginnings of understanding. "As you wish," he said, his voice filled with a mix of loyalty and unspoken questions. He then turned to the others, ensuring their safety before finally lying down beside them, his eyes closing with a heavy sigh.
Arthas took his place at the camp's edge, the warmth of the fire at his back and the cold, unyielding night before him. He stared into the darkness, his thoughts racing with the words of the Prophet and of his promises to him. His father would not be so easily swayed, but perhaps Uther might vouch for him if he had seen enough but he wasn't sure yet.
His eyes wandered to the sleeping mage as Arthas approached Jaina's resting form, the gentle rise and fall of her chest the only sound to pierce the silence of the night. Her face was serene, unblemished by the worries of the world that rested so heavily upon his own.
His hand hovered over her head, his breath misting in the cool air. With a tremble, he reached out, his finger brushing against a loose lock of her hair. The softness of the gesture seemed at odds with the cold steel that was his touch, but it pained him as well.
He watched her sleep, her features illuminated by the flickering firelight. Her eyes fluttered briefly, and he held his breath, fearing he had disturbed her. But she remained oblivious to his presence, lost in the embrace of sleep. His heart ached, a dull throb that seemed to resonate through every fiber of his being. He recalled the pain he had caused her, the suffering he had inflicted on her when he had been the Lich King. Her world had crumbled around her, her master and much of the Kirin Tor lost to the ravages of his onslaught to bring the wretched demon Archimonde into this world.
Her own homeland, Kul Tiras, even forsakened her because of her role in stopping her father from waging senseless war with the Horde.
Yet, she remained steadfast, a beacon of hope and resilience in a world gone mad. A trait that he would forever admire her for.
Every regret he had threatened to crush him from within. He had taken so much from her, and now he wished to give back what he could—his protection, his guidance, his friendship and even his own life if he could. He would not let her fall into the same abyss as she did before.
He hated having to keep secrets from her and his men. Because, he was afraid too. Afraid of losing the trust that he still have with them after he had destroyed it the first time in his previous life. I would tell them..., he thought with his eyes squeezed shut. Just at the right time...not right now.
He could feel the chill of despair within him. Yet, in this moment, amidst the warmth of the campfire and the peace of the sleeping mage, Arthas found a semblance of peace. I won't let you carry those burdens again..., he thought, as he gently looked at the woman whom had won his heart. And if there will be any...you won't be carrying them alone.
The prince's gaze remained fixed upon the sleeping mage, a silent apology etched upon his face. His eyes searched hers, willing her to wake and see the truth in his gaze, to understand the depth of his commitment to her and to the world. But the night held her fast, and so he watched over her and his men, not even minding to sleep for a brief moment.
It was a small price to pay for a greater cause beyond himself.
The dawn broke with the promise of a new day, but the air was thick with tension as the small band of allies approached the outskirts of Andorhal. Jaina, riding beside Arthas, could not shake the image of him from the night before—his haunted expression as he gazed into the fire. She longed to reach out to him, to offer comfort or at least to understand what he was feeling in these past few days, but she held her tongue. Falric, ever the observant soldier, noticed the prince's fatigue but said nothing, his own thoughts likely mirroring her own concerns.
As the group approached the city gates of Andorhal, the stench of decay grew stronger, and the sounds of battle grew more pronounced. Jaina looked over at Arthas, who rode stoically at the head of their party. His eyes were fixed ahead, his jaw set in grim determination. Despite his outward calm, she could sense the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. His gaze flickered to her briefly, and she knew he was aware of her scrutiny, but he said nothing. Instead, he urged his steed forward, his cape fluttering in the chilly morning breeze.
"Arthas," she ventured, her voice tentative. "I understand the urgency of our mission, but your behavior...it's unlike you."
Arthas' expression remained unreadable, his eyes never leaving the city ahead. "I've seen things, Jaina," he murmured, his voice thick with an unspoken burden. "Things that you wouldn't want to imagine."
Her curiosity piqued, Jaina pressed on. "What have you seen?" she asked softly, her voice carrying the weight of her concern.
He took a deep breath, being mindful of his words. "The consequences of inaction," he replied, his voice tight with emotion. "The price of complacency."
The group grew quiet as the city walls grew closer. The sight that greeted them was one of desolation. The once-bustling streets were now choked with the dead, and the buildings bore the scars of a brutal siege. The silence was broken only by the distant wails of the undead and the clanging of swords echoing through the desolate streets.
The city gates of Andorhal loomed before them, the once proud bastion now a grim testament to the relentless march of the undead. The creaking wood and rusted iron bore the scars of countless battles, each one a grim reminder of the futility of resistance. As they approached, the cacophony of battle grew more intense, the clang of steel and the sickening thwack of rotting flesh striking a chord of horror in their hearts.
Through the fog of war, a platoon of Alliance soldiers emerged from the shadows, their armor tarnished and their eyes wild with the desperation of the cornered. Captain Luc Valonforth, a human with a gleaming sword, stood at their forefront, his shield emblazoned with the symbol of the Kingdom of Lordaeron. He and his men were surrounded by a swarm of undead minions, their numbers seemingly endless.
The soldiers fought with a hard, their swords and maces biting deep into the decayed flesh of their attackers. Yet, for every undead creature they felled, two more took its place, their twisted limbs rising from the ground like the stalks of some macabre harvest.
Elven mages from Quel'thalas, their robes tattered and their eyes sunken with exhaustion, cast arcane bolts into the fray. The crackle of their spells pierced the air, briefly illuminating the carnage with flashes of cerulean light. Despite their valiant efforts, the tide of darkness grew ever stronger.
It was in this dire moment that Arthas and his companions arrived. The prince's gaze swept over the battleground, his heart heavy with the knowledge of the inevitable. Yet, hope flared within him, a beacon in the storm of despair.
With a roar that echoed through the streets, Arthas brought Light's Vengeance crashing down upon the skull of a charging Ghoul, the creature's unholy hunger extinguished by the hammer's divine might. The weapon, imbued with the power of the Naaru, sang with righteous fury as it cleaved through the undead, leaving a trail of purifying light in its wake.
Jaina, her eyes glowing with the cold fire of the arcane, summoned a hailstorm of shards that rained down upon the Scourge. The icy onslaught froze the undead in place, giving the soldiers a much-needed respite as the shards of ice shredded through their rotting forms. Falric and his men, their blades gleaming in the dim light, charged into the fray with a battle cry that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them.
The battle raged on, the cobblestone streets of Andorhal running slick with the foul miasma of the undead and the crimson lifeblood of the Alliance's finest. Yet, with the timely intervention of Arthas and his companions, the tide of battle began to shift. Each blow from Light's Vengeance sent a shockwave through the undying hordes, their unholy forms disintegrating into dust beneath its divine wrath. Falric and his men, their swords gleaming in the dim light, fought with the fervor of those who knew the very fate of their kin rested upon their shoulders. Jaina, her eyes aglow with the power of the arcane, weaved spells that danced through the air like the whispers of vengeful spirits, bringing forth bolts of frost that froze the advancing Scourge in their tracks.
In the chaos of steel and shadow, Captain Valonforth and his beleaguered soldiers fought on, their spirits bolstered by the sudden arrival of reinforcements. The tide of undeath was pushed back, the relentless pressure of the enemy's advance waning.
As the last of the undead fell, a silence, heavy and oppressive, descended upon the city. The clang of swords and the cries of battle had ceased, leaving only the mournful wail of the wind through the ruins. Captain Valonforth, his armor battered and his breaths ragged, approached Arthas, his eyes filled with a mix of relief and desperation.
"Thank the Light you've come, your Highness," he said, his voice hoarse from the strain of combat. "We are but a handful of survivors, holding out against the tide of the undead."
Arthas nodded gravely, his eyes scanning the decimated cityscape. "What has become of Andorhal, Captain?"
Valonforth's expression grew grim. "Those monsters" he spat. "They brought the plague. They've taken over the grain storehouses at the city's edge. And that they are preparing it for transport"
With a sense of urgency that seemed to radiate from his very core, Arthas turned to Captain Valonforth, his voice clear and commanding. "Your priority, Captain, is the grain," he said, his eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation. "We cannot allow it to leave the city. Gather your men and assist Lady Jaina and the mages in securing the storehouses. Do not let a single kernel leave this city until we have eradicated the undead's influence here."
Valonforth nodded, his weary face etched with newfound resolve. "Understood, your Highness. We will hold the line at all costs." He called out to his soldiers, who had gathered around them, their eyes filled with a mix of hope and fear. "You heard the prince! To the storehouses! For the Alliance!"
The soldiers cheered, their spirits lifted by the arrival of their prince and the clarity of their mission. Jaina, standing at Arthas' side, looked up at him with a question in her eyes. "And what of Kel'thuzad?" she asked, her voice tinged with the cold edge of urgency.
Arthas' gaze grew steely, his grip tightening on the haft of Light's Vengeance. "Falric and I will lead the other half of our forces in pursuit of him," he said. "We'll make sure he doesn't escape."
Falric, ever the loyal companion, nodded firmly. "Aye, my prince," he said, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
With a nod of understanding, the two groups split off from one another, each with their own critical mission to fulfill. Captain Valonforth gathered his weary yet determined soldiers, their eyes reflecting the hope that had been rekindled by Arthas' arrival. They set off towards the city's edge, where the looming grain storehouses stood as a symbol of the city's lifeblood, now threatened by the insidious grip of the Scourge. Jaina, her eyes aflame with the power of the arcane, whispered a spell that sent a shiver down the spines of the undead that still lurked in the shadows, watching them pass. The air grew colder around her, a sign of the fierce magical barriers she had cast to protect their retreat.
Arthas and Falric, on the other hand, set their sights on the necromancers' lair, a place where the whispers of Kel'thuzad's foul machinations grew stronger with every step. The prince's gaze was unwavering, his thoughts racing through strategies to confront the man whose treachery had contributed so much to his own downfall. Falric, ever the stoic shield, rode alongside, his eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of an ambush.
The night before...
Marwyn followed the two envoys from the House of Barov as they weaved through the cobblestone streets of Stratholme, their booted steps echoing through the quiet night. The moon cast long shadows across the cobbled path, and the distant sound of a lone guard's footsteps was the only company to their hushed conversation. The captain's instincts were on high alert, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. He knew that he was walking a tightrope between loyalty to his prince and the security of the city.
"The baron is expecting us," said the taller of the two, his voice carrying the confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
"Yes, but we must first ensure the 'flower girl' is properly... persuaded," the shorter one replied.
Marwyn's curiosity piqued at the mention of a 'flower girl'. Whatever they may be planning, he needed to intercept it at once.
Marwyn trailed the envoys from the House of Barov as they approached the quaint shop of Fearlina Bloomfield, the botanist's name etched into a wooden sign swinging gently in the cool evening breeze. The shop was nestled between two larger buildings, its windows displaying an array of vibrant flowers and herbs that stood in stark contrast to the shadowed streets of Stratholme. The captain observed from a safe distance as he listened to their conversation, which grew more distinct as they drew nearer.
The taller envoy rapped sharply on the door, and it swung open, revealing a warmly lit interior filled with the scent of earth and blooming plants. A slender young woman with a head of fiery red hair looked up from her work, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the two men dressed in the finery of the Barov House.
"Good evening, Lady Bloomfield," the taller envoy said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "We bring news from the Lord Barov himself."
Fearlina's eyes lit up with excitement. "The Barov family? Here, for me?" she squealed, her hands fluttering to her chest. "What could he possibly want?"
The shorter envoy stepped forward, his voice smooth and coaxing. "The Lord has heard of your... unique talents, shall we say?" He glanced at the myriad of bottles and vials lining the shelves. "And he has decided to offer you a place into his household, starting next week. A position that will pay you quite handsomely."
Marwyn felt a cold knot form in his stomach. The mention of 'unique talents' and 'handsomely' could only mean one thing—the Barov family was seeking to exploit her knowledge for their own purposes. The captain knew he had to find out more, but he had to be careful not to reveal his true intentions.
Fearlina looked at them with a mix of suspicion and excitement. "What sort of position?"
"Ah, that's the beauty of it," the taller envoy said with a chuckle. "All will be revealed in due time. But for now, know that your skills will be put to good use, and you will be well-rewarded for your efforts."
Fearlina hesitated, glancing back at her workshop. "But what of my shop?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
The shorter envoy waved a dismissive hand, handing her a letter. "Lord Barov will compensate you for any losses, I assure you. This is an opportunity of a lifetime, one that you would be foolish to pass up."
Marwyn watched as the botanist's expression shifted from skepticism to hopefulness, and he knew that he had to act quickly. He could not allow her to become embroiled in whatever plot the Barov family had planned. But how could he interfere without giving away his own mission?
"Very well," Fearlina said finally, a tremor of excitement in her voice. "I will join Lord Barov's court."
The two envoys exchanged a knowing look before turning to leave. "Excellent," the taller one said. "We will send for you when the time is right."
As they disappeared into the night, Marwyn approached Fearlina's shop, his mind racing with questions and concerns.
Marwyn waited patiently in the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest, as Fearlina eventually emerged from her shop, a watering can in hand. She tiptoed over to a particularly lush plant, humming softly to herself. The captain took a deep breath and, when the moment felt right, he leaped into action. He darted out from his hiding spot and, with surprising agility for his size, covered the young botanist's mouth with his calloused hand, effectively silencing her muffled scream. Her eyes went wide with terror, and she struggled against him, her hands flailing in the air.
Marwyn whispered urgently into her ear, "Lady Bloomfield, I am Captain Marwyn of the Royal Guard. I'm here to help. So please, don't scream." His grip was firm but gentle, and he could feel her body begin to relax slightly as she realized she wasn't being attacked by a common thug.
Fearlina's eyes searched his, looking for any sign of deceit, but found none. She nodded cautiously, and Marwyn released her, stepping back and raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "Forgive me for the fright," he said with an awkward chuckle. "But I overheard your conversation with the Barov envoys and I fear you're being drawn into something... less than noble."
"Why are you so interested in what they said to me?" Fearlina asked, her voice trembling slightly as she stepped back into the warmth of her shop, her eyes never leaving the imposing figure of Captain Marwyn.
Marwyn's expression was grim as he replied, "I am here on orders from Prince Arthas to uncover any threats to our city. Baron Rivendare's dealings with the House of Barov have raised some concerns, and I cannot ignore any potential connections. I assure you, your safety is of the utmost importance to us."
Fearlina clutched the letter in her trembling hands. "But I've done nothing wrong," she protested. "They just offered me a position at their household!"
Marwyn took the letter from her, his eyes scanning the parchment before he spoke again. "I do not doubt your innocence," he said gently, his voice laced with sincerity. "However, the nature of this offer is suspicious. The House of Barov is known for... acquisitive tendencies."
The botanist looked at him, her eyes wide with confusion. "What does that mean?"
The captain sighed, choosing his words with care. "It means that they may seek to use your talents for their own ends. And in times like these, such ambition can lead to dire consequences."
"Lady Bloomfield" Marwyn said with a tone of urgency, "I must ask you to keep our meeting tonight a secret. Your safety and the security of Stratholme may depend on it." He offered her a solemn look, his eyes holding hers for a long moment. "I need to take this letter with me if I am to make sure of everyone's safety."
Her eyes searched his for a brief moment before she nodded. "I understand, Captain. I won't tell a soul."
Marwyn offered her a reassuring smile, though it did little to ease the tension that lingered in the air. "Thank you. I'm sorry for the abruptness and the fear I've caused you. It was not my intention." He took the letter and tucked it safely into his tunic, his eyes never leaving hers. "Please, continue with your evening. I will ensure that the Royal Guard remains vigilant, and that your name remains unblemished."
Fearlina nodded, though her amusement at his sudden concern was evident in the quirk of her lips. "I appreciate your concern, Captain. But I assure you, I can handle myself. I've been running this shop alone for quite some time."
Marwyn chuckled, a rare lightness momentarily piercing his stoic demeanor. "Of that, I have no doubt," he said, his eyes sweeping the interior of the shop. "But even the most capable are not immune to the machinations of those with power and greed. I will be watching over the city, and if there is anything more I can do for you, do not hesitate to send word."
"Thank you, Captain," she said, her voice still shaking a little. "I will keep that in mind."
Marwyn gave her a courteous nod before he turned and disappeared into the night, leaving the woman to ponder the mysterious turn of events.
That Marwyn fellow was a strange one, for a Captain that is. She had to admit, it would've been better if he just approached her normally.
Marwyn shadowed the envoys through the moonlit streets, his heart racing as he approached the coordinates they had mentioned. The safehouse was a nondescript building, blending seamlessly into the rows of houses that lined the narrow alleyways of Stratholme. The captain ducked into the shadows as the envoys approached, their confident strides and the jingle of their spurs announcing their presence. He watched from his hiding spot as the door to the safehouse creaked open, spilling a sliver of candlelight onto the cobblestones. The silhouette of Baron Rivendare emerged from the gloom, his tall frame casting a long, ominous shadow across the ground.
The two men from the House of Barov bowed deeply before the Baron, their heads lowered in respect. "My lord," the taller one began, "we have received news that the grain from Andorhal is en route as we speak."
Rivendare was pleased. "Excellent," he said, his eyes glinting with malice. "Your service to Lordaeron is invaluable. And what of our dear friend Kel'thuzad?"
The shorter envoy stepped forward, his voice filled with a strange mix of excitement and dread. "He is eager for the grain's arrival, my lord. The acolytes await his instructions with great anticipation."
Marwyn's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his mind racing as he pieced together the puzzle before him. That they intend to spread the plague with aid of this Kel'thuzad fellow. The captain's thoughts turned to his prince, and the gravity of the situation grew heavier with each passing moment.
"Good," Rivendare said with a sneer. "And the Royal Guard? Have they been... distracted?"
The taller envoy nodded. "Captain Marwyn is occupied with securing the grain, as per the prince's orders. He suspects nothing."
Marwyn felt a twist of anger at the mention of his name. They were playing a dangerous game, using him as a pawn without his knowledge.
The Baron leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried through the chilly night air. "And the prince himself? What of Arthas?"
The shorter envoy swallowed hard. "He... he remains focused on his mission, my lord. But we are taking precautions to ensure that his suspicions do not lead him here."
Baron Rivendare's laugh echoed through the alley, a sound as cold and hollow as the cackle of a raven. "Arthas," he spat. "He is a fool to think he can simply interfere of our work." His eyes narrowed as he spoke the next words. "But tell Lord Barov that the time is almost upon us. The grain must reach Stratholme before he does."
The envoys nodded, their expressions unreadable in the flickering candlelight. "We will not fail you, my lord," they said in unison before retreating back into the shadows.
Marwyn waited, his breath held in his chest, until the Baron had disappeared back into the safehouse. The whispers grew louder in his mind, but he clamped down on them, focusing instead on the task at hand. He knew he had to inform Arthas of the Baron's treachery and the impending danger.
With the gravity of the situation weighing on him, Marwyn knew he had to act swiftly. He waited until the envoys were deep in conversation, their heads bent together in the dim light of a flickering torch. The crowd around them grew denser as the night market grew more boisterous, providing the perfect cover for his next move. He approached them casually, his eyes downcast, blending in with the townsfolk as they bartered for their goods. The taller envoy's hand was resting on his belt, and as Marwyn "accidentally" bumped into him, he slipped the letter from Fearlina into the man's pocket with a deftness born of years of training. The envoy stumbled slightly, looking around in surprise, but Marwyn had already melted away into the throng of people, his hand sliding into his own pocket to retrieve the true document.
The shorter envoy looked up, a frown creasing his brow. "What was that?" he murmured to his companion.
The taller envoy shrugged, patting his pocket absently. "Probably just a drunk," he said dismissively. "Let's get this to Lord Barov. We don't want to keep him waiting."
Marwyn's heart pounded in his chest as he watched them go, the letter from Rivendare now safely in his possession. He had to get back to Arthas immediately and inform him of the Baron's treacherous plot.
He hurried to the city's gates, his thoughts lingered on what he had uncovered. The gates loomed tall and foreboding, the torches casting a flickering light that danced on the cobblestones as he approached. His hand was clammy around the letter with Rivendare's seal, the weight of it feeling like a leaden stone in his pocket. As he reached the guardhouse, he called out for a cavalry messenger, his voice echoing through the night.
A young, eager-looking soldier emerged, his armor gleaming in the torchlight. "Sir, what is your message?" he inquired, his hand on the reins of his steed.
Marwyn pulled out the letter and held it up. "This is of the utmost importance," he said, his voice urgent. "You must take this to Prince Arthas without delay. Do not let it fall into the wrong hands, and tell no one of its contents except for him."
The messenger took the letter, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized the crest. Along with another that Marwyn gave that detailed his findings to the Prince. "Understood, Captain," he said, his voice steady. "I will deliver it posthaste."
Marwyn nodded firmly. "Good. Ride hard and may the light guide your way."
The young soldier mounted his horse, and with a swift salute, he kicked his steed into a gallop, the sound of hooves echoing through the night as he disappeared into the darkness.
The captain took a moment to compose himself, watching the messenger shrink into the distance. He knew that he had done all he could for now, but the fear of what lay ahead gnawed at his soul.
Back at Andorhal, the air was thick with the stench of decay as the wagons laden with the tainted grain rolled through the city gates, their creaking wheels heralding the coming of a grim fate. Kel'thuzad's eyes burned with malice as he observed the convoy from the shadows of an abandoned building, his skeletal fingers tracing the lines of a foul incantation in the air. The necromancer's gaze was fixed on the horizon, his thoughts consumed by the prize that awaited him in Stratholme.
"Move swiftly," he hissed to the undead drivers, his voice a chilling whisper that carried on the wind. "Our plan must not be delayed."
The wagons picked up speed as they approached the outskirts of the city, the clatter of their wheels on the cobblestone streets a harbinger of the doom that trailed behind them.
But as the convoy neared the city gates, the skies above Stratholme were suddenly split by a fiery glow,. The doors to the city were blown apart by a perfectly timed fireball, the flaming debris showering down on the cobblestones in a spectacular display of arcane power. The stunned undead stared in disbelief as the wagons were revealed, their once sturdy forms now twisted and burning, the grain within them smoldering ominously.
Kel'thuzad's eyes narrowed in fury as he recognized the hand of the young mage, Jaina Proudmoore, in the destruction. His eyes darted to the mages that had accompanied her, their faces grim as they conjured barriers to protect themselves from the onslaught of rotting flesh and bone that the Meat Wagons had unleashed in retaliation.
The necromancer's fist slammed into the stone wall beside him, sending a spray of dust and pebbles into the air. "Fools," he spat. "You dare to stand in the way of the Lich King's will?" His voice grew in power and rage, the very air around him crackling with dark energy.
Jaina, her eyes glowing with the intensity of the arcane, raised her staff in a gesture of challenge. "I dare," she declared, her voice steady despite the horror that unfolded before her.
The Meat Wagons, driven by the unyielding rage of the Scourge, surged forward, hurling the rotting body parts of their former passengers with unnatural strength. The foul projectiles rained down upon Jaina and her comrades, but she remained unfazed, her magical shields holding firm against the assault.
"Wipe them out. All of them." Kel'thuzad bellowed, his voice a thunderclap that sent the already panicking horses into a frenzy. "The grain must reach Stratholme. There is no alternative."
The battle raged on, the streets of Andorhal bathed in the sickly light of the dying embers of the wagons. The mages, led by Jaina, unleashed a torrent of spells to fend off the relentless attacks, while Captain Valonforth and his soldiers formed a protective wall around the mage. The clang of steel against the unyielding bone and decayed flesh of the Scourge filled the air, as the soldiers of Lordaeron fought to contain the monstrous creations that had once been their kin.
Kel'thuzad's furious gaze remained locked on Jaina and her companions as the chaos unfolded before him. His eyes flickered with a malicious glee as the undead tore into the living flesh of the defenders, the screams of the dying piercing the night air like a symphony of despair. But amidst the tumult, a figure emerged from the shadows, one that chilled his very soul.
It was the Prince, leaping over the burning wreckage of the Meat Wagons with a grace that seemed almost supernatural. His eyes were ablaze with the light of his holy warhammer, Light's Vengeance, bearing a mask of fury and determination. The necromancer felt a sudden chill, a premonition of his own impending doom as the prince's weapon descended upon him with the force of divine wrath.
With a flick of his wrist, Kel'thuzad managed to conjure a barrier of swirling dark energy, but it was not enough to withstand the power of Arthas' blow. The barrier shattered like black ice, sending shards of malevolent power skittering across the cobblestones and pushing the necromancer back several steps. The two adversaries now stood alone, the chaos of battle receding into the background as their eyes met.
"At ease, your highness...", the Necromancer said with a slight sneer. "I am Kel'Thuzad, and I've come to deliver a warning. Leave well enough alone. Your curiosity will be the death of you."
Arthas scoffed. "I know well enough, sorcerer", he spat, resisting the urge to end his wretched life here once more. "Of you and the master you serve. It ends now."
Kel'Thuzad stared at Arthas, his curiosity piqued. "You speak as though you know our plans," he said, his sneer replaced with a hint of intrigue. "Tell me, Prince of Lordaeron, what do you know of the Cult of the Damned?"
Arthas' grip on Light's Vengeance tightened, the weapon's holy aura crackling in the tense air. "I know enough," he said, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder. "I know of your foul rituals, of how you and your ilk have conspired with the likes of Mal'Ganis to bring the plague to our lands."
The necromancer's eyes widened slightly, impressed despite the dire situation. "Very perceptive of you," he mused, given only a few knew about the Dreadlord's plan, even less about his identity. "But what good is knowledge if it leads only to your own doom?"
"It taught how to deal with the likes of you," Arthas shot back, each word a dagger thrown with precision.
Kel'Thuzad chuckled darkly. "You cannot escape the inevitable, child," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "You cannot hope to stop it. Not when it is the very will of the Lich King that you stand against."
The mention of the Lich King sent a shiver down Arthas' spine. He steeled himself, pushing aside the specter of his former self. "Your 'Lich King' will not claim Stratholme or Lordaeron," Arthas vowed. "I will see to it personally."
With a sneer that twisted his gaunt features, Kel'Thuzad raised his staff high, and a swirling orb of sickly green and black energy formed at its tip. He took a moment to savor Arthas' expression of disgust before hurling it with a malicious cackle. Arthas, anticipating the move, sidestepped with a fluid grace that belied the weight of his heavy armor. The unholy projectile smashed into a nearby tree, which began to rot away before their very eyes, its once-verdant leaves withering to dust.
"Is that it, sorcerer?" Arthas taunted, his own voice filled with contempt. "To think you could challenge the might of Lordaeron with your petty tricks."
Kel'Thuzad's eyes narrowed, his fury building like a storm within him. "You underestimate the power of the Scourge," he hissed, slamming the butt of his staff onto the bloodstained ground with a thunderous thump. The tremor that followed sent ripples through the very air, and from the shadows of the nearby alleyways, the lifeless forms of slain villagers and guards began to stir. Their bodies contorted and twisted, bones cracking and reknitting themselves into grotesque forms as they grew in size. Two monstrous Abominations lurched into existence, their stitched flesh bulging and pustulating as they let out guttural roars, their very presence a testament to the necromancer's dark arts.
The crowd of mages and soldiers gasped in horror as the Abominations lumbered towards Arthas, their rotting limbs swinging with a terrible, unnatural strength. The prince's eyes never left Kel'Thuzad's, a cold smile playing on his lips. Arthas responded by raising Light's Vengeance high. "But if this is the game you wish to play, then I shall be the one to end it."
With a flick of his wrist, Kel'Thuzad sent the Abominations charging at Arthas, their gaping maws wide and filled with decay. Arthas stood firm, the light of his warhammer burning brighter as he prepared to meet their advance.
The necromancer's next response was a chilling laugh. "You know so little of what you face," he said, his voice echoing with the promise of doom. "But you will learn. You will all learn the price of defiance.
The name Fearlina may be familiar to some of you. She's actually one of the bosses in Naxxramas as the Grand Widow but the chances of her being one are pretty non-existent now, since Marwyn inadvertently prevented her from joining the Cult of the Damned.
I figured Arthas meeting Medivh might show some foreshadowing. While OTL Arthas dismissed him because he was rushing to save his people, current Arthas would be more keen to listen to him if it meant heading west is the alternative to save his people as he does not strive for vengeance, for now.
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