[Fanfiction] Warcraft: Return of the Lich King

[Alexand3r]

This is my own interpretation of the events that could unfold in the future. I might write more. I hope you like it!

25/05/2015 Update: Added two more chapters.

28/07/2015 Update: Added Chapter VI.

21/09/2015 Update: Added Chapter VII - The Siege of Icecrown

30/10/2015 Update: Added Chapter VIII - Everburning

19/11/2015 Update: Added Chapter IX - War Begins

09/02/2016 Update: Added Chapter X - The Gathering Storm

24/03/2016 Update: Added Chapter XI and Chapter XII

21/05/2016 Update: Added Chapter XIII

28/07/2016 Update: Added Chapter XIV!

24/08/2016 Update: Added Chapter XV and the Epilogue!


P.S.

Unfortunately I have no idea how to format the whole text properly here so if you prefer you can find this on DeviantART (looks somewhat better) or fanfiction.net (DA might be better).


Something you should take into consideration:

Having played WCIII, read Arthas: Rise of the Lich King and faced Arthas himself in the online game, I think that Ner'zhul might still be around. In the book it seems to me that Arthas only banishes both Ner'zhul and his good self and, in fact, when Arthas is on the brink of death he appears to be the good ol' prince we all love (or despise), which means that the orc could still be "alive" and well. Bolvar's voice change also seems to indicate the latter.

Note 24/08/2016:
I started writing this long before Legion was announced, even before WoD was released and thus this story doesn't follow the events in the online game or the new lore established by Chronicles (some things may be similar).


Suggested Music:

Craig Armstrong - Escape
World of Warcraft OST - Arthas, My Son
World of Warcraft OST - Invincible

---

Prologue

His eyes opened and the ice began to crack. Bolvar Fordragon awoke from his long slumber, his eyes flaring like two suns. The ice completely crumbled down and all that was left was the frozen throne.
“There must always be...a Lich King.”
He exhaled. White puffs escaped his mouth and soon after vanished.
“Fordragon…," a voice whispered. “Rise from your throne and take back what once was yours.”
Fragmented memories of the previous Lich King flooded his head. “Be gone, spirit. I will not be your puppet.”
“Fool!” the voice snapped and all of Icecrown shook. “You cannot stand idly by any longer! He is coming.” An image of burning demonic eyes came and went.
Bolvar rose and stepped away from the frozen throne onto the cold platform below. Icy winds blew past him and snow whirled all around him as he gazed at his surroundings. How many years had passed he did not know, how many more years it would take him to get used to his body he didn't know either. He turned his right hand repeatedly, wishing that the many molten fissures that ran across his skin were just an illusion, and then a snowflake gently fell into his palm, melting as soon as it touched him.
“Listen to me, Fordragon!”
Bolvar clenched his fist. “Silence.”
“You will not be able to ignore me forever. Sooner or later you too will require my aid. Do not think that I haven’t played this game before. The prince deemed himself pure, just like you, and just like him, you will plunge into darkness.”
Bolvar fell to his knees as his left eye slowly turned blue. He covered it with his hand and then even the red flames on the left side of his body undertook the same transformation.
Ner’zhul, the spirit bound to the Helm of Domination, relished the moment. “Yes…yes.”
“Get...out of my head!” Bolvar roared.
Ner’zhul’s voice and reality itself became ever more evanescent.
“I foresaw my demise, I foresaw the prince's demise, and I foresee your future, Bolvar Fordragon.”


The ice cracked. Bolvar Fordragon, the Lich King, had reawakened.

---

I
Winds of Change

The birds fled, the winds howled, the living and the dead stirred as the presence of the Lich King was felt once again.
“Death to the Scourge! And death to the living!”
Bolvar shook his head to dismiss the memories. He stood close to the edge of the icy platform, looking, sensing, feeling the undead. He knew he hadn’t fully recovered yet. Unlike his predecessor, he only held sway over the cold lands of Northrend and even here not all the dead were under his control. Some wandered with minds of their own.
Beneath the citadel, scattered around Icecrown and beyond its borders he could almost see them: nerubians, ghouls, skeletons, dragons, vrykul, shades, liches.
Kel’thuzad.
He sought out the lich. He had served Ner’zhul and Arthas well and his wisdom could prove being useful even to Bolvar. Alas, there was no sign of him.
Then he thought of the shades, of how they had aided the last Menethil in the Eastern Kingdoms and later in this bitter land, of how the Lich King could see through their eyes. He looked for them and soon found a few. He could not leave his throne yet, the world was not ready for him. Bolvar strode to his throne and sat. There his mind focused on the shades that were closest to the living and then, once he had made his choice, he closed his eyes.
When he reopened them he saw women, men, children, all going about their daily lives, unaware of the shade’s presence. Bolvar prompted it to move.
I go unseen, the shade replied telepathically.
Valgarde’s towering walls fell behind and the settlement came into view in all of its glory. Smoke rose from chimneys, fishermen dawdled by the water, blacksmiths hammered metal and a stable boy struggled to keep the horses calm.
“What on Azeroth is going on with these beasts?” the stable owner asked and before he knew it a chicken dashed between his legs, followed by two children. “This is madness!”
“I-I don’t know, sir. They’ve been acting strange since this morn.”
The shade moved on. It went past several other buildings and several other animals on the loose. At the Lich King’s command it stopped by an inn, listening. Two women outside the inn were engaged in gossip but as soon as the shade caught glimpse of a man being escorted by soldiers it took off in pursuit. “Draw me like one of your night elves,” the shade heard as it drifted past a house. It followed the soldiers into a tall building with guards stationed at its entrance. The shade went past them without making a sound and proceeded through corridors and rooms richly decorated until it arrived into a large hall.
“Vice Admiral Keller,” the man the soldiers had escorted said, “it is an honour.”
Keller nodded. “The honour is mine, paladin.”
“And greetings to you too, Lord Irulon Trueblade.” The paladin bowed.
“A brother of the Argent Crusade.” Trueblade smiled. “Welcome to Valgarde.”
Keller waved a hand towards a chair at the table beside them. “What brings you here?”
“Lord Tirion Fordring, admiral. He—“
The paladin’s weapon glowed, a faint light to mortals but to the shade it was dazzling. He drew his weapon and looked around without uttering a word. Irulon sensed something too and drew his weapon as well. The soldiers that had escorted Tirion’s messenger stood there dumbfounded, not really sure what to make of their behaviour. Even the vice admiral stared at both of them completely confused. He raised an eyebrow as they took careful steps towards the soldiers at the door.
“Light grant me sight!” Tirion’s messenger raised his weapon in the air.
Run, Bolvar said just as an explosion of light startled the shade, revealing its form to the living.
“What the hell—“
As Keller spoke the shade darted as fast as it could through a window and away from Valgarde, never to be seen again.
Bolvar had not learnt much, yet he still had a few more shades at his disposal. He spared the shade in Valgarde from investigating any further and switched with another one. This time he was in the Storm Peaks where the wind howled continuously and with it snowflakes streamed all across the white landscape.
I shall be your eyes.
The shade travelled to Bolvar’s next target, K3, a goblin camp.
It was hard to find such a small place in this weather, especially considering that the buildings were constantly covered in snow, but for the shade’s eyes this was nothing. Bolvar knew that it would’ve found what he was looking for.
And as a matter of fact the short yet sturdy walls of the camp appeared before the shade and with them the goblins’ peculiar machines: turrets, shredders and other strange devices. The shade hovered past a few buildings, their doors all closed, and overheard a conversation two goblins were having, possibly a married couple, the husband louder than the shrieking wind.
“I told you, I ain’t going to the Eastern Kingdoms or Kalimdor! Between the naga, the Iron Horde and whatever the heck is going on now there, it’s safe to say that it’s better we stay here!”
The shade heard something break. “If I stay here one more day I swear I will poison you,” the wife yelled.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep on talking, Nilika. Without me you’d be poor.” The husband walked outside and closed the door slightly.
“We’re already poor! We haven’t had visitors in ages! This place has been abandoned by everyone.”
The husband sighed and walked back inside, locking the door. The two spoke for an eternity but words were unintelligible outside. The shade moved on but the place was mostly silent. Bolvar dismissed the shade and then he found himself in the Borean Tundra, outside the mighty Warsong Hold.
The fortress was huge but it was mostly empty. The orcs had no need for many soldiers here, just a few to keep an eye on the last pockets of undead in the land. The shade ventured inside through the bars of the massive portcullis. Orcs wandered here and there, some warming themselves with drinks, others sneezing and cursing.
To the barracks, Bolvar commanded and the shade obeyed. Within the barracks there were orcs, trolls, a few tauren and some tuskarrs but only a couple were in the dining hall. There an orc, a warrior with huge arms who had covered his back with a thick coat of fur, spoke with a tuskarr beside a brazier, both sitting comfortably on wooden stools.
“…he died, somehow, that’s all I know.”
The tuskarr rubbed a sigil on one of his tusks. “There are some strange rumours surrounding his death, but all say the same thing. Garrosh is no more. He will not return with another host.”
The orc gulped down his drink. “Indeed. What about you instead? I heard there was some unrest in your village.”
“The elder,” the tuskarr said after sipping some tea, brewed by the orcs just for him. “He said he felt…Karkut.”
The orc had no idea what he was talking about. “Who?”
“He Who Watches Over The Dead. The God of Death, in short.”
A troll danced in the same room in a very unusual way. He had drunk too much of whatever the orcs had given him. “And,” the orc continued although the troll was starting to bother him, “how can he be so sure it was this…god of yours?”
“Animals have been behaving strangely today. As for the elder, he told us that at dawn a chill ran up his spine, a chill he had felt—“
The warrior flung his mug at the dancing troll who fell head first onto the floor. “But…mon.” The troll dozed off and stayed there for the rest of the day.
“You’re saying he felt…the Lich King?”
The tuskarr nodded. “Apparently.”
“He was slain years ago. Tell your elder and your people that there is nothing to worry about.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
The shade left the fortress and for a moment Bolvar gazed at the harsh environment, the land still bearing the signs of the war against the Scourge.
He opened his eyes. Just like in the Storm Peaks the wind here on the frozen throne was fierce and would’ve cut through any mortal who dared venture this high. Yet a mortal had come.
“You’re awake,” a human said, his armour bearing the symbol of the Ashen Verdict, his weapon a black steel. “That I did not expect.”
Look alive, Fordragon, that is no mere human.
Ner’zhul wasn’t lying. Bolvar could sense something different within the human. “Who are you?” he said, his voice no longer the one he had grown accustomed to.
The soldier laughed. “An old…acquaintance of yours, or well, of the Lich King’s. Tell me, where is the Crown Prince of Lordaeron? I would like to have his bones dance for me.” His hair swayed wildly in the wind.
Bolvar saw the man’s hand rest on the hilt of his weapon and as he grinned his teeth as white as snow became visible. He’s come here to slay you, Fordragon. “Reveal yourself. I will not be fooled by this charade.”
“As you wish,” the man bowed. “It seems I won’t be needing this then.” He drew his weapon and held its steel in his hands. It disintegrated soon after. Then he fainted and his body landed with a thud onto the icy platform. Dark magic seeped out of his flesh, wisping upwards slowly and then quickly until it coalesced into a being the Lich King had faced in the past.
“Mal’ganis.” Bolvar said, although it seemed like Ner’zhul had spoken.
The dreadlord grinned. His canines were spear-like and his eyes were two bright green orbs. “You have their memories, I presume.”
Bolvar’s mouth was a fiery chasm. “State your business, dreadlord.”
“My business is simple,” Mal’ganis replied, waving his claws. “I’ve come here to undo you, my little king. Kil’jaeden considers you a terrible mistake, a mistake that he thought disappeared from this planet when those mortals laid siege to this blasted citadel. He did not expect them to be so naïve as to replace the old Lich King with a new one. Nevertheless, I relished the moment when his beloved weapon shattered to pieces.” The dreadlord wings flapped twice. “What? Did you think that only the Light had freed the paladin from his icy prison?” He cackled. The sound would’ve been unsettling to any living creature.
“The Lich King defeated you once, he shall do so again.”
Mal’ganis narrowed his eyes and tightened his grey lips. “Yes, I remember. Alas, you no longer have the cursed blade and your powers have been significantly reduced.”
“Try me,” the Lich King said. The old Bolvar Fordragon would’ve probably spoken differently.
“Arrogant as the prince, I see. The Nathrezim created the helm you hold and the Nathrezim know how to turn it back into a useless piece of metal.” As Bolvar remained silent Mal’ganis continued. “Tell me, what does the treacherous shaman whisper to you? Oh, yes, I know he’s there. How are you faring, Ner’zhul?”
The desire to break the dreadlord’s horns arose within Bolvar. That would’ve taught him a lesson “Let us settle this now.”
“All in good time.” Mal’ganis smiled and his body began turning into a swarm of bats. “All in good time.” His eyes were the last thing Bolvar saw before he completely vanished.
Silence fell over Icecrown Citadel.
Now you see, Fordragon, that you are but one of the many players in this game.
Bolvar knew what he meant. The spirit’s thoughts were in his head, mixing and mingling with his own. “No,” he said out loud.
Ner’zhul didn’t have to ask why Bolvar was being so insistent. The answer came immediately as Bolvar recalled the moment he donned the Helm of Domination. “Tell them only that the Lich King is dead…and that Bolvar Fordragon died with him.”
“The world must never know the Lich King is still alive.” Bolvar spoke again.
There won’t be a world if you do not take action, Fordragon. You heard the dreadlord, you’ve felt it, the Burning Legion is coming to claim this world and it won’t repeat the same mistakes. Do not be a fool.
Bolvar drummed his fingers on frozen throne. A flurry of snowflakes blew against the back of his throne and continued forward. He thought he had seen the sun shining far into the distance, right where the snow had gone. Then he stared at the sky above him, at the innumerable clouds that constantly changed shape and at the queer raven that flew in a circle, cawing every once in a while.
When he lowered his eyes he made his choice. Thus, Bolvar Fordragon left the frozen throne and began descending the same stairs that Arthas had once ascended to fulfil his destiny. He would have to owe Tirion an apology, he reckoned, and as he thought of his friend he remembered an old conversation, the memory so vivid that it seemed like it was happening at that very moment, as if the paladin was walking with him.
“My friend, the first day we met I knew you were a man with a noble spirit.” Bolvar remembered and as he reached the bottom of the spire he strode through the frozen citadel. “I watched you grow into the man you are today. I know the sacrifices you’d be willing to make to protect our land.” He saw his reflection in the ice just before he stepped outside. “And I’m sure that when the time comes,” Bolvar recalled as he stopped at the foot of the citadel, the undead gathered around him, “you will lead our people.”


---

Notes:

- Mal'ganis whereabouts are unknown in the game. Knowing that he hated Arthas and, while he was defeated during the attack on the Scarlet Onslaught, that dreadlords have the ability to possess bodies I imagined that he took control of an unfortunate soldier during the Siege of Icecrown and managed to witness the final battle with his own eyes and even contribute. I don't mind the fact that Tirion freed himself thanks to the Light but I thought it made the Lich King look sort of...weak.

- In the last scene I wanted to depict something similar to what we see in the Wrath of the Lich King Cinematic. Instead of King Terenas we have Tirion, for example (they look like good friends in the game so I thought it would be realistic to think that they have known each other for a long time). The WotlK cinematic is beautiful, the setting magnificent, the script perfect. I wanted to create something with the same spirit, although it is probably far from that level of perfection.


Suggested Music:

World of Warcraft OST - Arthas, My Son (especially for the last scene)
World of Warcraft OST - Invincible
Audiomachine - Army of Kings

---

II
The Dead Still Live

There is much to do, Fordragon. The blade must be reforged, Northrend must be reclaimed and the lich must be found. He knows much. Too much. The elven woman could also prove being useful, but be wary, she cannot be underestimated. Arthas did so, and almost perished. She too might be in search of Frostmourne. She cannot be all—
Bolvar hushed Ner’zhul as a nerubian erupted out of the ground. “Sire,” the creature said in a raspy voice. “It is an honour to serve you once again. We have been awaiting your return.”
Abominable little thing, Bolvar thought, although he didn’t make his disgust visible. As he looked at the many undead that had come before him he came to the conclusion that the nerubian was probably the least revolting.
“I am Anarak. Anub’arak served you in the past but, alas, he no longer treads this world. I would like to take his place, if it would please you.”
Bolvar nodded.
The nerubian bowed. It appeared quite awkward to Bolvar. “Others have heeded your call, my king. The Cult of the Damned wishes to have an audience with you.”
That name filled him with hatred. The cultists were despicable beings. They had murdered countless lives, used the foul magic that was necromancy to bolster the Lich King’s armies and like rats they had infiltrated many organisations. Most of them were humans and all of them had succumbed to insanity. They must have. He could not imagine another explanation for their loyalty to the Lich King. To him.
I know you intend to sever their heads, but doing so will only weaken the Scourge, Fordragon.
“Tell them I’ll meet them shortly.”
“As the Lich King commands.” The nerubian bowed again and skittered away.
A raven on a jagged rock cocked its head to one side as Bolvar looked at it. It was the same one he had seen flying above the frozen throne. Then he shifted his gaze to a gargoyle descending towards him. It carried a body.
Arthas learnt to use his powers quickly. The gargoyle dropped the body that had been previously possessed by Mal’ganis in front of Bolvar. Let us see what you’re capable of, Fordragon.
He wasn’t Arthas. “Never,” Bolvar said.
His left arm began to shake, then his hand moved on its own. The more he resisted, the more it trembled. Ner’zhul’s voice became deafening.
Obey.
The body rose from the ground as if a hand had gently pushed its chin upwards. Dark magic it was, though there was an eerie molten tongue dancing about it. The man’s eyes became a fiery orange, similar to Bolvar’s but not as radiant or as alluring. He staggered backwards and grasped his head. “No.” He noticed his skin was paler. “No,” he repeated. “NO.” He bellowed as he realised he had been raised into undeath. “What?” His breathing was erratic. “What have you done to me?” He fixed his gaze on Bolvar and bared his teeth. “Curse you, Arthas!” he shouted and drew a sword that wasn’t there any longer.
Before he could take another step Bolvar waved his hand and the man quieted down.
And then he knelt.
That wasn’t very hard, was i—
Ner’zhul spoke no more, as if Bolvar had truly shut his mouth with his own hands.
“Arno of the Ashen Verdict at your service, sire,” the human said.
Bolvar had an idea. “Arm yourself, and then return to me.”
You want to reason with him? Hah!
Anarak came scuttling back to him, his mandibles clicking. “The Cult of the Damned is just this way, sire.”
He followed the nerubian across the frozen ground. Steam wisped upwards from his footprints and the deathly sickness that pervaded the earth appeared to subside temporarily wherever he set foot. Dozens of undead bowed before him as he strode past, some even losing a limb or two while doing so. Other nerubians, just like Anarak, lowered their heads. “Glory to the Lich King,” some said. There were many more, of course. Abominations that dripped foul liquid every once in a while, frost wyrms that soared above him and roared in his honour, death knights that knelt in his presence, ghouls that made incomprehensible sounds.
“Right this way,” Anarak said, waving towards a decrepit building that had been carved into a mountainside.
The gate had fallen and was now covered in snow. Its black iron popped out as he entered the building. It was warmer than outside, but to Bolvar it made no difference. He was virtually a living volcano.
The nerubian stood aside and beckoned him to sit on a rocky throne at the end of a dreary hall. Ice had wrapped the pillars that supported the pitch black ceiling where icicles as big as an arm had formed.
“I shall bring our guests here, my king.”
As the nerubian vanished Bolvar strode forwards. His body glowed dimly but in the darkness of the hall it appeared much brighter. Just as he sat the cultists arrived.
“Sire,” the nerubian said and took his place beside the throne.
The Cult of the Damned approached him. Thirty had come, mostly humans, both male and female. They stopped halfway to the throne and knelt in unison.
“Speak.”
No one rose and no one dared look at him directly. “My king,” a cultist said. “It is good to see you once again. We all have been looking forward to this day.”
His manner of speaking riled Bolvar up.”What is it that you seek?” Water droplets slid down his throne.
The cultist cleared his voice. “The living have been busy in your absence, my king. They have corrupted much of the land you once owned. We only wish to serve you as we did in the past, and purify this world. To prove our loyalty, we have brought you a gift.”
Bolvar saw a woman holding a strongbox. “Rise. All of you.”
And so they did. Most of them didn’t lose their composure when they saw him, but some preferred to keep their eyes down. None of them said anything, but he knew that his appearance had somewhat puzzled them.
Do not send them away, Fordragon. These pesky mortals are more clever than you think.
The wind sighed. “Come forward.”
“Thank you, my king.” The male cultist bowed and waved at the woman holding the strongbox.
It was as black as the room and though it looked frail it was actually harder than steel. The woman murmured something as she came closer and the strongbox opened. Bolvar cast down his eyes yet all he could see was a purple cloth.
But there was something else. Faint, weak, yet whatever it was made him feel almost cold.
It seems I wasn’t wrong when I sensed it.
“We have brought you a fragment of Frostmourne, my king,” the cultist said. “We hoped that this would’ve been to your liking.”
The fragment lay there, its icy blue standing out against the rest of the strongbox. It was small and of the many runes had been engraved into Frostmourne this fragment had only one with a quarter missing. Such a small piece of the legendary weapon was still able to radiate power. The temperature dropped drastically around it, so much that the cloth enveloping it was coated in frost. Even in death Arthas still tormented him. That blade was the last thing Bolvar wanted.
Anarak clicked his mandibles. “A gift fit for the Lich King.” He nodded.
Bolvar turned to the nerubian and then back at the cultists. “How did you find it?”
The woman locked the strongbox, laid it gently beside his throne and stepped backwards, always with her face towards the Lich King. The male cultist spoke again as soon as she came to a stop.
“The living had it, my king. We were able to retrieve it, though some lost their lives in the clash. They were then raised to serve you a second time, as you’d wish.”
He wouldn’t wish that at all. “Could you find the other fragments?”
So even the noble Fordragon cannot resist Frostmourne’s power. Now, that is interesting.
“Naught is impossible, my king. All can be accomplished, in time.”
Bolvar drummed his fingers. “Find them and bring them to me.”
“As the Lich King wills.” They all bowed and took their leave.
“Well done, sire.” Anarak rasped. “The Cursed Blade would be a most magnificent asset.”
“Leave me now and let the soldier in. Do not let anyone else enter.” He glanced at the strongbox. “Take that too and keep it safe.”
“As you wish, sire.” He bowed and skittered out of the hall, his feet thudding on the floor.
Arno walked inside the hall. He had straight posture, a steady gait and his expression was typical of a loyal soldier. “I have come, as you requested.” He fell on one knee and held his weapon before him.
“Rise.” Bolvar’s voice echoed. Arno stood and Bolvar did the same. He stepped forward and took a good look at the undead human. “I will release you now. You will be free, as you were in life, but you are to stay your weapon.”
“I shall do as you ask,” he said, though Bolvar was not entirely convinced.
And as Bolvar waved his hand the soldier blinked twice as he came to his senses. Once he became aware of the situation he clenched his teeth, raised his sword and lurched forward.
“Damn you!” He roared. “You bloody coward!”
Bolvar ducked and thrust his right hand upwards. His searing fingers wrapped themselves around Arno’s neck, so tight that he seemed keen on strangling him. Arno dropped his weapon and attempted to free himself.
“Arthas...you motherless bastard.”
The Lich King narrowed his eyes. “Look at me,” he said, raising him higher into the air. “I am not the patient man I used to be. LOOK AT ME.” The air around his hand shimmered and hummed. “Do I look like Arthas to you?”
Arno struggled to speak as he peered into Bolvar’s ever-burning eyes. “Wh-Who are you then?”
Bolvar tightened his lips. “I am Bolvar Fordragon.” He released his grip.
The soldier fell to the ground and rubbed his neck. “Im...possible. Bolvar Fordragon died at the Wrathgate.” He glanced at his weapon. “You’re a liar.”
Just as Arno tried to rise from the ground and possibly grasp his sword Bolvar placed his left hand on his forehead. He wasn’t sure this was going to work, but it was worth a try. The man widened his eyes, but not in terror. Heat enveloped his face, a soothing, comforting heat, not the type that would melt your flesh or turn you to ashes. Bolvar showed Arno briefly everything that had occurred to him. The Wrathgate, the dragons’ fire, the moment he was carried through the citadel and then left above the frozen throne, the endless torment that he was forced to endure at the hands of Arthas, the day he donned the Helm of Domination.
Bolvar let him go. He strode back to the throne and sat, waiting, watching, hoping.
The soldier of the Ashen Verdict breathed deeply and, slowly but surely, drew himself up. “Highlord Fordragon, I...I...if I had kn—“
“You couldn’t have known,” Bolvar said. “No one could have, no one can...and no one should.”
Arno picked up his weapon and put it back into its sheath. “But...how did this happen?”
“That...is a long story.”
“How did I get here?” Arno looked at himself and then at his surroundings. He forced himself to remember. “The Ashen Verdict would’ve carried safely home any soldier that would’ve fallen.”
He recalled the grin on Mal’ganis’ face. “A dreadlord possessed your body.”
That vexed the soldier. He would’ve cut Mal’ganis in half on the spot if he had been present. “Yet that doesn’t explain why I’m...this.”
Bolvar thought he had seen Ner’zhul smile this time. “That...is an unfortunate accident. I would’ve not done it, had my will been stronger.”
Arno stared at Bolvar, then back at himself, especially at his pale hands. “Is it...permanent? Can it be undone?”
“That might be possible.”
“But why?” Arno faced him. “Why give me free will? I would’ve made a better servant.”
Those words were particularly annoying. “I do not seek servants. I only seek help.”
“Help?”
Bolvar nodded.
“Highlord Fordragon,” Arno said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I do not doubt your sincerity. Arthas would’ve never given me free will, nor treat me with this amount of respect, yet I still do not understand the reason behind all of this.”
The ice on the throne had completely melted. “The Burning Legion.”
“The Burning Legion? We defeated them years ago.” The wind sighed again.
“They will come back. The same dreadlord who took control of your body is gathering an army. He is but one of those who are preparing for the demons’ arrival.”
Mentioning the dreadlord had done the trick. “I would not mind thrusting my sword through the dreadlord’s heart.”
Bolvar was pleased with his statement. “I will not force you to aid me, nor will I bind you to my will if you refuse to do so. The choice is yours.”
“I...” Arno tapped his weapon with his hand. “I need time to think.” He strode away and his cape fluttered wildly as he neared the exit. He suddenly stopped. “If I help you, once this is all over,” he said and looked at Bolvar straight in the eyes, “will you give me peace?”
“If that’s what you wish.”
“It is.”
Bolvar nodded and the hall turned back into the silent forgotten hole it had been.
Impressive, Ner’zhul said after Arno had left. Yet soldiers are better when completely obedient. Free will makes them doubt, question, rebel. That is why the Scourge has often been so successful.
“Keep your ramblings to yourself, orc.”


Bolvar had stayed there in that frozen hall longer than he thought. Hours had passed since his audience with the cultists. The silence was hauntingly beautiful.
He stood up and made his way out of the building and away from the mountainside. The bird he had seen earlier had been in the hall all along and had flown outside with him, though it disappeared a moment later.
“Highlord Fordragon,” Arno approached him. “A word with you, please.”
“Have you made your choice?” Bolvar stopped. He noticed that Anarak also wanted to speak with him.
Arno nodded. “I will help you,” he said, “as long as what you do is just and as long as you do not slaughter people just like your predecessor did.”
The comparison was annoying but understandable. “I shall do no such thing.”
“I know that you won’t,” Arno replied. “How shall we proceed?”
“Gather the army and await my orders.”
“As you say, Highlord Fordragon.” Arno bowed and turned. He halted when Bolvar spoke again.
“You will address me by my appropriate title in the presence of other undead. No one must know who I truly am.”
“As the Lich King wills.” He bowed a second time and walked away.
Anarak came soon after. He scuttled to his side and spoke as they both began moving. “Sire,” he said, moving his limbs, “we have detected scouts prying into our affairs. Your return must have alerted the living. What are your orders?”
“Keep monitoring them and deter them from attacking us, but do not even lay a finger on them. Those are my orders.”
The nerubian thanked him and left. Bolvar instead marched on. Then he felt it.
Far to the north, beyond the citadel and the glacier and across the frozen sea an old enemy revealed himself.
Mal’ganis.


---

Notes:

- It looks messy here, but oh well.
- I was a bit more quick in editing, revising and proofreading this chapter so I truly hope there aren't any ghastly mistakes.
- The whole chapter may seem a bit rushed, but I did it on purpose to give the feeling of impeding danger. Now that Bolvar is awake, Mal'ganis knows that he has to make haste lest the Lich King becomes too strong. As you'll discover, dreadlords are more cunning than people think.
Even the Lich King can be deceived.
- I will probably make the following chapters longer (the more I look at these, the more I think they are indeed short).

---

III
Old Enemies, Old Friends

“Highlord Fordring. I have a report concerning Northrend.”
Tirion sat on a bench reading in one of his few moments of leisure. He faced the messenger as soon as he heard his voice.
“Everything is in order, I suppose.”
Sweat trickled down the messenger’s cheeks. “Actually...sir, there—you better read it yourself, my lord.” The renowned paladin put the book away, stood and took the letter containing the report. “I was only given a brief summary of what the report contains.” The messenger spoke as Tirion opened the seal and began reading. “Some mages of the Kirin Tor offered me safe passage to Hearthglen. Their abilities are at your disposal, sir. They await you at the main entrance,” he said, though he wasn’t sure his words had been heard. Then, for the first time in his life, he saw Tirion Fordring, wielder of the Ashbringer, slayer of the Lich King, become restless.
“I need a horse. Now.”
While the messenger searched for the squire Tirion entered his beloved house. Across rooms and down a stairway that coiled its way far beneath the earth he went. A door, humble in its decoration yet locked in all possible ways stood before him. Only he knew how to open it and as he did so his eyes once again relished the sight of the Ashbringer.


Bolvar gazed at the valley before him. His army looked at him from below, their eyes flashing a blue glow. The world changed in his mind and he stood there atop the icy cliff as Arthas, his immense army screeching, roaring, the rattling of bones even loud and clear at that height. His deathly cold eyes shifted to the right and turned into a fiery orange as Arno approached Bolvar, the memory hiding in a dark corner of his being.
“The army is ready,” Arno said, “though I’m not sure I’d call this...an army. How on Azeroth do you plan on defeating this dreadlord?” He waved his hand towards the rabble of undead, their numbers far from being the machine of death that had once been the Scourge.
Bolvar could sense Mal’ganis’ undead forces. They were many yet they were not the massive army he had expected. “It will do. Send the gargoyles and start marching towards the remains of the harbour of the Scarlet Onslaught, it is there where his forces will attack. I will meet you shortly.”
Arno nodded. “We’ll await you there.” He marched towards the edge of the cliff and blew a horn. The sound aroused the undead. Their battle cry echoed across the valley and the gargoyles shrieked as they took to the skies. They flew north towards Hrothgar’s Landing and farther they went the more they appeared as bats.
Hmm, something is amiss.
Bolvar looked down and observed the black ice. To his right there was an immense crevasse and in front of him a hole. Though time had altered it there was no doubt that something very sharp had once pierced it.
This Iron Horde they speak of, Ner’zhul continued. It might not have belonged to this world.
“What makes you think that?” Bolvar asked and began striding in the gargoyles’ same direction.
In your slumber a great deal must have happened, Fordragon. What precisely I do not know, yet whatever it was came from the Dark Portal, or rather, through. There is no other possible explanation.
The snow was thick yet Bolvar waded through without any effort. What was tiring him was Ner’zhul voice.
I think I felt...myself.
That surprised him but he had other things on his mind at that very moment. He arrived at the Argent Tournament Grounds, or what was left of them. Flagpoles jutted out of the snow, the fabric fluttering wildly in the wind, stone and timber lay forgotten around the area, and a graveyard kept watch on the frozen landscape. He stopped when the sea came into view and the gargoyles disappeared in the fog.
They flapped their wings above the frozen sea. The weather this far north was never kind to anyone and in winter it was even more harsh. Shipwrecks encased in ice pointed upwards as if they were skyward bound and as the gargoyles neared Hrothgar’s Landing other shapes dotted the landscape but they were far from motionless.
An undead taller than a human though similar in appearance shambled forward, his beard a mix of hair and icicles. He was followed by more creatures like him, many of them wielding spears and all of them mindlessly marching south-west but his weapon bore more ornate decorations than the rest. Alongside them were undeads shorter but with wider girths. Their round bellies, if they still had them, had turned white in the cold and ribs, broken or whole, were sticking out like pikes. The gargoyles circled above them twice before returning to Bolvar.
“Keep an eye on the living,” he said and they flew to different parts of Icecrown.
His fingers twitched. The battle was about to begin.


“We’re ready,” Arno said as Bolvar joined his army.
No one would’ve believed that the plot of land they were standing on had once been a harbour. The whole place was a jumble of frozen sea spray, snow, stone and charred wood. Any sort of equipment had been looted, though not everything had been taken, Bolvar noticed as his feet tapped against something made of steel. He pulled a round shield out of the snow and tested its weight. He had never gone in a battle without his sword and shield and while he was still missing a weapon having a shield reminded him of the man he was, or rather, had been. Ice caking his newly found piece of metal turned into vapour in an instant as his fingers tightened on the handle.
The march began.
Onwards and never looking back, a mass of creatures straight out of the nightmare followed the lead of the Lich King, a living flame amongst a host of frozen souls.
“Wait.” He extended his arm sideways. A briny wind whipped up snowflakes and blew them against his army.
Anarak stepped off the beach and onto the frozen water. He stamped one of his feet and after listening for a while he clicked his mandibles. “They’re coming,” he said as he scuttled back to Bolvar. “Big and tall, small and short. They make a lot of noise.”
Another gust of wind and another round of unsettling silence. Bolvar looked to the east, to the west and to the south.
Arno raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”
The first figure appeared out of the fog. Its spear caught the eyes of both Bolvar and Arno.
“Wait for my signal.” Bolvar observed the enemy. A second later he caught a spear inches from Arno’s face that would’ve probably gone through his skull had it not been for his hand. “Focus,” he said and began testing the weight of the spear while the soldier of the Ashen Verdict drew his weapon.
“We’re yours to command, sire,” Anarak said, his many eyes set on the undead that lumbered towards them.
The spear burst into flames, molten lines carving their way across the shaft to its head. Bolvar tossed the weapon in the air and threw it as soon as he grabbed it again. It vanished in the fog after flying through the neck of an undead. The fiend burnt bright and its bones and flesh burnt away, though it only came to a halt once its legs became useless.
“Not yet.” He noticed Arno was eager to fight.
The dreadlord’s forces came forth. Whether they had been enemies in life did not matter. Kvaldir and tuskarr now fought side by side. Amongst the kvaldir there were some who could cast spells and even manipulate mist as they pleased.
Bolvar tried to control them. He focused on the kvaldir with the ornate spear yet all he managed to do was learn his name. Hrothgar, the word echoed in the undead’s mind.
Dreadlords are no fools, Fordragon. The only way to gain control of Mal’ganis’ forces is to slay him.
The enemy army stopped. Hrothgar stretched his jaw and planted his spear, his eyes never leaving the Lich King. In truth, all of the undead surrounding him and still shambling out of the mist looked at no one but Bolvar.
“It begins,” Hrothgar’s rotten lips moved, “my dear king.” His voice was grating and discordant.
Bolvar recognised the dreadlord’s rhetoric.
The kvaldir stepped aside and the enemy army divided into two, a wide gap between them.
“Something comes.” Anarak leaned close to the ground. “On the frozen sea, though I can feel its steps here too.” He narrowed his many eyes. “There, sire.” He pointed at the mist.
A frosty chitinous shell appeared hovering towards them. A moment later they saw its two arms and huge four legs, a horn that could’ve impaled five men in one swift thrust, two eyes that were full of resentment. The creature had once been a king and had died protecting its kingdom, twice. It had died a third time yet Anub’arak had not gained the peace he longed for.
“He lives.” Anarak rasped after clicking his mandibles as he often did.
Anub’arak stomped forward, the wind blowing through the holes in his body or against loose parts of his carapace. His wings were barely intact.
“The Lich King had many servants in the past,” Hrothgar said. “Let us see how willing they are to serve him again.” He grinned.
Bolvar almost felt pity for the nerubian. “Show yourself, Mal’ganis.” Steam flowed out of his mouth.
Anub’arak stopped beside Hrothgar. “Not fond of challenges?” The kvaldir spoke. “Arthas was always eager to test his strength, are you not?”
“Let me fight him,” Arno said.
“No,” Bolvar replied and then pondered. “Give me a weapon.”
A sword was what he wanted, but a spear was what he got. A bony finger was still wrapped around it. “It’s the best thing I found,” Arno said. “Might have belonged to someone of the Argent Crusade.”
The ice coating the spear melted and the finger fell. “Don’t drop your guard.” Bolvar marched forward.
He had vague memories of the crypt lord. In all of them he looked less dead and more alive, though he had been as dead as the skeletons that had served the Lich King. He had been one of Arthas’ most loyal servants, yet the prince had always been wary of him. The nerubian had not willingly chosen to slaughter his own people and serve him.
“You are not him,” Anub’arak said, a piece of one of his enormous mandibles dangling in the wind.
Bolvar stared at the nerubian’s glowing blue eyes. “No, I am not.”
“My quarrel is not with you,” Anub’arak said after glancing at the Helm of Domination, “but with the prince and the spirit, yet once again my will is not my own.”
The Lich King and the so-called Traitor King looked at each other. “Arthas is no more.”
“That...I can see. My people have been avenged, though the Helm still remains.” He clacked his mandibles.
Allies. “Would your people help the Lich King if it came to it?”
Anub’arak laughed. “Help?” He turned towards Anarak and thought deeply. “Time is fleeting, human. It is time to prove your worth.” He stepped backwards. “Kill or get killed,” he said. “Only one shall stand.”
Bolvar looked to the east and the west, then even to the south but when the ice began to quake his focus shifted to the massive nerubian that charged at him. He stayed put, spear and shield at the ready.
“Oblivion awaits!”
He rolled to the right and poked him with the spear. The nerubian charged and swiped his thick front limbs. Bolvar ducked the first time, then the second and on the third time he thrust, piercing Anub'arak's decrepit shell. Spikes erupted out of the ground and Bolvar leapt, thrusting again and wounding the nerubian close to the head. The nerubian spun and slammed his limbs against Bolvar’s shield. He slid sideways across the frozen sea and this time he took the initiative and dashed towards Anub’arak.
Enough of this, Fordragon. Use your powers and end this farce.
His shield started glowing as if it had come straight out of a furnace. The nerubian roared, the ice shook, the wind howled and Bolvar tossed his shield, scorching and lacerating the crypt lord’s carapace, too fast for him to dodge completely.
Anub’arak brought down his scythe-like limbs as the two clashed, yet Bolvar voluntarily fell and slid, spear still in hand. The ice cracked where limbs fell and the nerubian stamped each one of his insectoid feet as Bolvar vanished below him, all missing him by inches. He appeared behind him and rose from the ground. Bolvar climbed onto his back and jumped into the air, his weapon pointing downwards.
And he thrust.
Anub’arak shook him off his back and Bolvar rolled away with neither shield nor weapon to use. The huge fiend rushed headlong against him. He avoided the horn and wrapped his arms around it, the two skimming across the sea until they came to a stop.
“You are strong,” Anub’arak said as Bolvar wrestled with him, “but he was stronger.”
The air around Bolvar became hotter as he narrowed his eyes and when a swarm of frosty locusts took flight from the nerubian’s back and surged forward they all burnt away before they could even touch him.
The horn snapped and the Anub’arak reeled back, then he closed his jaws on Bolvar but molten hands kept them open. Saliva trickled down the nerubian’s snapping mandibles while Bolvar’s volcanic muscles tensed, the veins in his arms glowing like rivers of lava. The coldness emanated by the crypt lord fought against the Lich King’s searing aura, their eyes fixated only on each other.
Bolvar shoved him away and as Anub’arak attempted to bite him again he curled his fingers into a fist and hit him hard. He punched him twice and a mandible flew away, he punched him a third time, pushing him further back, and the nerubian staggered for a few moment before resuming his attacks. Bolvar pulled his arm back, the air thrumming around him, and drove his molten fist into the insectoid face. Anub’arak slid away and Bolvar rushed to meet him. His left hand struck first, then his right. Left, right, left, right, over and over again until the crypt lord gained some distance and rose. Bolvar stamped one foot and a fiery fissure cut its way through the ice and made the nerubian lose his footing. Another fist came, another fissure opened and as Bolvar ducked he brought his fist upwards. The force of the impact forced Anub’arak to expose his abdomen. Bolvar stepped forward, thrust his hand and a second later a torrent of fire burst out of the nerubian’s back, the smell of charred rotten insect pungent.
Bolvar backed off and the ice quaked as Anub’arak tumbled down, smoke wisping up from the hole in his body. He lay there, defeated, his breathing unsteady.
“Protect...my people.” Anub’arak managed to say, resignation in his eyes.
Raise him, Fordragon. He could be useful in the future.
A molten hand gently touched the nerubian’s forehead. Fire slowly enveloped the whole body of the once king of Azjol-nerub in an almost tender, caressing way. Anub’arak looked at Bolvar and closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered and the traitor king was no more.
“The dead will stay dead under my reign,” Bolvar said.
Then your reign will be a short one.
He turned to Hrothgar yet all the kvaldir did was grin. “Ah, ah, ah.” Bolvar thought he could hear Mal’ganis voice. “You’re not paying attention.”
Kvaldir, tuskarr, and every other creature Mal’ganis had brought here turned to mist and disappeared in a gust of wind.
Bolvar fell on one knee and grasped his head, overwhelmed by what he sensed.
You fool. The dreadlord wanted to see for himself for you were capable of, and now you’ve showed him.
To the east, to the west and to the south. Countless undead revealed themselves all at once.
“Highlord Fordragon!” Arno came. “Are you all right?”
“Northrend...is surrounded.” Bolvar stood, still grasping his head.
Arno was taken aback. “Surrounded?” He raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Mal’ganis’ forces...they’re all gathered on the continent’s shores. They’re marching inwards.” He rubbed his eyes. “To Icecrown.”
“How many?”
“Hundreds,” he said but Arno didn’t change his expression. “Thousands.” Concern washed over his face. “Millions.” That made the soldier of the Ashen Verdict gape.
“Millions?” Arno said in disbelief. “We, we must immediately alert the Argent Crusade, Wintergarde, Valgarde, everyone!” His fingers tightened around the hilt of his weapon. “Even the Horde.”


“Do not ever show hesitation, Highlord Fordragon,” Lady Prestor had said. “A ruler must never hesitate, a ruler must never appear weak, a ruler must never fall victim to self-doubt.”
The Scourge made its way across the glacier back within the safety of the tall black walls crisscrossing the area around the citadel. At the head of the column marched Bolvar, followed by Arno and Anarak. The trek through the unforgiving landscape gave him time to think, to plan, to decide.
A gargoyle joined them and screeched. An army, mostly composed of humans, had stationed itself outside Mord’rethar, while a smaller force awaited orders within the Argent Vanguard, the Argent Crusade’s main base in Icecrown. But someone else stood idly by beside a snowy hill north-west of the base, away from the dead and the living.
“Wait outside the citadel,” Bolvar said as he approached Arno and Anarak. “There is something I must do.”
Both Arno and Anarak nodded and Bolvar branched off from the column. More memories flooded his head, some more unpleasant than others. He strode past remains of siege engines and jagged rocks, over the very ground where one of the greatest conflicts of all time had taken place, skirting cliffs that had seen horrors beyond imagining and trudged through the snow until he was on top of a hill. The blade of the Ashbringer gleamed in the faint light.
“Bolvar!” Tirion turned.
Bolvar’s eyes studied him. “Tirion.”
Strands of grey hair swayed in the breeze. “What are you doing here?” Tirion said. “And, by the light, why are the undead moving about?”
Bolvar breathed deeply. He couldn't tell whether the paladin was pleased to see him or not. “A storm is coming.” His gaze went to the mountains in the east. “Get everyone out of Northrend.”
“Out of Northrend?” Tirion was puzzled. “This is madness, Bolvar.”
Kill him, Fordragon. He will only thwart our plans.
“An army of undead advances under the command of a dreadlord. This is only the beginning.”
“Impossible!” Tirion’s tabard fluttered wildly. “We have scouts everywhere. No army can go unnoticed.”
“Yet it has.” Bolvar’s voice was almost toneless. “Valgarde will soon be attacked. I can...sense it.”
The paladin widened his eyes for a brief moment. “No, Bolvar, my friend. You cannot do this, not now, not at this very moment. Everyone thinks the Lich King is dead. Everyone thinks you’re dead. Let the Alliance and the Horde take care of it. Let the Argent Crusade take care of it, for light's sake.”
“Both the Alliance and the Horde have to watch over their lands and your order will not be enough.” He exhaled. “I must do this.”
Tirion shook his head. “No, Bolvar. It would do more harm than good. I cannot allow it. I—“
“Allow?” Bolvar faced him. “I AM THE LICH KING.” The ground shook and a gust of hot wind blew against the paladin.
Tirion’s hand had involuntarily clasped the hilt of the Ashbringer. “Bolvar,” he said as he released his grip, “what...what happened to you?”
Bolvar huffed. “Bolvar Fordragon is dead.”
The paladin sighed and looked away. “I will do what you asked, but I cannot promise you anything.” He took his leave. “Know this,” he said before taking another step, “that if you should ever fight against my people I will have to protect them, even from you, my friend.”
The wielder of the Ashbringer left, the sound of the snow crunching under his feet diminishing by the second. Bolvar grasped his head instead and then observed the frozen wasteland around him. He shifted his eyes to the raven on a leafless tree and the bird cocked its head.

---

IV
A Flame in the Dark

The orc sniffed the air.
“Hmm?” another one joined him. “What’s wrong, Rakro?”
Rakro sniffed the air a second time. “There’s a stench in the air.”
“This place has always smelt foul.” The other orc huffed and leaned against the barracks’ wall.
Both looked at the guards pacing to and fro and at those observing the land from the intimidating watchtowers. The wind blew again and a bitter chill enveloped them. It was followed by the squeaking and creaking of a loose wooden signboard.
“Rakro and Dest,” a tauren said as he walked out of the barracks, “keep an eye on that troll again. He’s drunk a bit too much.”
They both nodded. “I should’ve hit him harder the last time he got drunk,” Rakro said.
Dest laughed. “That’s what my son and wife always say when I drink too much.” He scratched his chin and stared at the grey clouds above them. “Hmm?” A bird flew past the watchtowers and into the keep.
Rakro had seen it too. “Was it carrying a message?”
“I’m not sure.” Dest shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Looked like one of those the tuskarr send.”
“Aye.”
Another bird came, though it only soared away. Then two more, three, four, until hundreds of them swarmed the skies and disappeared into the distance.
Dest stepped away from the wall, startled. “That’s odd.”
“I told you there was a stench,” Rakro said. “Are they all coming from the coast?”
“Possibly…possibly.”
A chilling wind sent a shiver up and down their spines and just as a captain stepped out of the keep the clouds began to whirl. A green hue took its place in the massive spiral of grey and a moment later it became as bright as fire.
And the sky roared.
“Sh—”
The ground shook as a fiery boulder crashed into barracks, showering them with debris, the blast so powerful that it sent all of them flying away. The captain was the first to rise after shoving away a piece of masonry covered in green flames that had landed on his chest.
“Come on!” He shouted at Rakro and Dest. “Get up!”
Green embers surrounded the crater at the centre of the barracks, bodies sprawled around it. The smoke and dust settled and all the orcs that had survived the blast clasped their weapons as a being made of stone and demonic fire towered above them.
“An infernal!” an orc shouted.
Rakro kept his wits about him. This was no time to stand still and gape. Dest waddled to his side and removed a splinter embedded in his arm. Both of their axes gleamed in the light of the eerie fire.
Shouts came from the watchtowers. “They’re already here!” A mage burst out of the keep, followed by two other magi. The sight of the colossus stirred something in them. Blood elves remembered far too well the havoc wreaked by the Burning Legion to claim the Sunwell. Two of the magi rushed back inside the keep while one approached the orcs and nodded at the captain.
The captain rallied his troops and raised his axe. “Lok’tar ogar!” he boomed.
“Lok’tar ogar!”
Dozens of orcs rushed to meet the infernal, followed by the elven mage who soon after joined the front line.
“I will try to slow him down!” His hands began to glow softly. “Finish this quickly!” And with that said he vanished in the blink of an eye, only to reappear at the infernal’s left flank.
Much to their own surprise the drunken troll emerged from the rubble grasping his head. He took a step back as he realised he was right next to the demonic creature.
“What on Azeroth is he doing?” Rakro said, the smell of charred flesh far from arousing his appetite.
“Da voodoo!” The troll threw tankards, stools, pottery and anything else he could lay his hands on whilst repeating the same thing over and over again. “Da voodoo! Da voodoo!”
The infernal brought down his fist upon the troll but failed to as most of his body became encased in ice. The troll, though momentarily out of harm’s way, tripped and fell anyway.
A steady gust of frigid wind flowed out of the blood elf’s hands. His green eyes shifted to the orcs. “Now!”
A wave of warriors crashed against the infernal. Their axes always found their mark yet it was not flesh they were hitting, but stone.
The ice cracked.
“We don’t have time,” Rakro said, Dest chipping away at one of the infernal’s legs. “Call the goblin!”
Another crack and water began dripping on their faces.
“Where is that damn goblin?”
Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes seemed like hours. Rakro saw the elven mage struggling to keep the creature still and then he saw Dest backing away from the infernal.
More sleet and icy slivers showered over them. “He’s going to free himself!”
One of the other elven mages teleported out and back into the keep, leaving a goblin behind, an explosive charge in his hands.
“I don’t get paid enough for this,” he muttered as he approached them.
Rakro cursed and made his way to the goblin.
“Quick!” Sweat trickled down the mage’s cheeks.
The goblin tossed the charge. “Catch!”
“I can’t hold on much longer!” the elf said as Rakro grabbed the explosive.
“Out!” Rakro waved. “Get out! Now!” He stopped beside the mage. “How the hell do I put this on him? It will explode immediately!”
The mage looked back and forth. “Throw it when I say so.” He took a deep breath. “Understood?”
Rakro nodded.
“Now!”
“Sh—”
The ice encasing the infernal burst into millions of tiny fragments and the demonic creature roared in anger. But Rakro and the elf were already gone.
Kaboom. Cinders and stones covered in green flames flew all over the place and the curses of those who got hit by the debris filled the air.
“I told you there was a stench,” Rakro said as Dest walked to his side. He dusted himself off and jerked his head to the west at the sound of a horn.
“The undead are coming!” a lookout shouted.
The captain gathered all the able-bodied orcs and prepared for the inevitable assault. “Give them no quarter!”
Dest nudged Rakro and bobbed his head at the sky. He broke into a sprint. “The keep!” The sky thundered. “The keep!”
A green meteorite pierced the roof of the keep and soon after the whole ground shook. Chunks of masonry bombarded the entirety of Warsong Hold.
Rakro took cover a moment after seeing Dest tumbling to the ground. He grunted and peeked at the keep. His eyes widened in dismay.
Time waits for no one, Fordragon. Watching the events unfold won't change the outcome.
Chaos ensued while the shade observed. A deafening roar came from within the keep, another from the main gate where another infernal had crashed, then a horn was blown, the sound of maddened beasts, the clang of steel and the sizzling of fire.
The defenders of Warsong Hold fought hard but still the infernals managed to lay waste, the damage unimaginable. As the demonic creature that had destroyed the gate crumbled to pieces and as Dest flew out of the keep after being pummelled by a stony fist silence fell. The dead had come.
A wave of undead beasts flooded the Horde’s headquarters in Northrend, any living creature in their path either trampled on, impaled or mauled.
Rakro fought alongside his companions, his axe chopping off limbs and heads, dripping a blood that was both foul in look and scent.
“Stop them!” a voice shouted. “Stop them at once!”
Huge mammoths swung their tusks left and right and soon their bony white colour turned red. More great beasts came.
“Aside! Aside!”
A magnataur charged forth at unbelievable speed, the death toll rising each time it attacked. Shouts, screams, shrieks echoed throughout the hold.
The shade kept doing its work, not budging an inch even before such a massacre. Another wave of undead crashed against the warriors of the Horde, this time made up of skeletons, ghouls and the like.
An arm whizzed above Rakro’s head that twitched even after falling to the ground. “There’s just too many.” He panted and turned.
Dest dragged himself to the western entrance, a ghoul on his tracks. The fiend reached out to him and got two steel boots in its face. Then its head parted from its body.
“De—”
A hand erupted out of the ground and gripped Rakro’s ankle. He freed himself, brought down his axe and raised dust aloft, fingers flying left and right. Another chilling guttural sound, another ghoul eager to tear him to shreds. Rakro dashed forth, only to be shoved away. A magnataur, half skeleton and half frozen flesh, speared the captain with his tusks instead of him.
“Retreat!” A horn was blown twice. “Retrea—”
His voice was cut off, and Rakro knew exactly what that meant. He saw the elven mage that had aided them earlier struggle to both defend himself and another blood elf, her arm wrapped around his shoulder. Then he waved his hand. Myriads of icy spears erupted out of the ground, granting anyone still alive a chance to breathe deeply and flee. The elf, exhausted, took hold of the reins of a panicked horse and made for the western gate.
“Orc…mon.”
Rakro tossed his axe and sliced in half an undead that had wriggled itself past the ice. He ran as fast as he could and whistled three times. A large armoured wolf appeared out of the stables and padded towards him. “Come on.” He motioned the troll to mount.
The troll grasped his head with both of his three-fingered hands, staggering. “Da voodoo…”
“What?” Rakro glanced back. “Enough of this nonsense! Get on!”
“Da voodoo, mon.” He waved his hand. “Da voodoo!”
Rakro knocked him senseless. “You and your blasted voodoo.” He hoisted him on his shoulder.
Explosions sent shockwaves in all directions, one so powerful that made the whole place shake. Then he heard a voice, hoarser than usual but still recognisable. “Ra…Rakro!” Dest crawled closer to him, one of his shoulder pads missing. “Take care of my family,” he said as his friend approached him.
“To hell with you and your family!” The wolf came and inclined its head. “Get on!”
Dest forced himself to sit on the wolf. Then Rakro flung the troll on the beast.
“Out of here! Go, go!” He prodded the wolf and the beast bolted away.
Rakro heard the ice shatter and fixed his gaze on the oncoming undead. Before he too vanished in the distance he caught glimpse of a horned figure standing above the keep, seconds before it completely collapsed. “Damn it!” he said, his legs aching. “Damn me, damn those tuskarr and damn those humans.” He grunted and ran straight through the shade, his mind ignoring the chill that mortals usually felt in doing such a thing. “I’m no damn runner!”
The land shimmered, buildings melted away and everything took on new shapes and colours. A salty breeze brushed the grass and stone around Valgarde.
“How much pork would an orc fork, if an orc could use forks?”
“An orc would fork as much pork as an orc could fork, if an or—”
A woman in her thirties grabbed both children by their ears. “This is no time to play!” She dragged them to the ship docked at one of the piers.
Gryphon riders circled above the town while lines of people waited to board the ship, soldiers of Valgarde and paladins of the Argent Crusade overseeing the whole operation.
“Slowly and steady,” a paladin said, a tome hanging from a chain around his waist. “Stay in line.” It jingled.
Tirion’s messenger was also there. He stood next to the vice admiral who cursed in all possible ways whenever the guards dropped his belongings.
“Will you be more careful?” He spat. “I bought that bloody table yesterday.”
The messenger cleared his voice. “It would be best to leave these things behind.” The table was dropped again and Keller bit his fist.
“Bah!” Keller shook his head. “I spent a fortune for that. Won’t leave it here.” He glanced at him. “What was your name again?”
“Jameas, Vice Admiral. Jameas Eris.”
Keller sighed. “Well, Jameas, I truly hope you people of the Argent Crusade know what you’re doing.” A goat ran past them. “But how can such a force have appeared out of nowhere? And who the hell is behind this?”
“That I do not know.” He said and another ship left Valgarde’s port. “Lord Tirion will inform us immediately if there are any further developments.”
“Yeah…yeah, I heard. Are those mages, magi, whatever they’re called, still messing with that fancy orb?”
The call of a gryphon caught their attention. The rider commanded it to land close to the admiral and then dismounted. “Vice Admiral Keller.” The dwarf removed his helmet, hair glued to his face.
The admiral crossed his arms. “Any news?”
“Aye.” The dwarf replied grimly. “The western coast is overrun with undead. They’ve already assaulted the horde outpost and our camps in the south-west.” He took a deep breath. “We helped a few, but the others…”
Jameas turned and saw Keller shaking his head. He wanted to reassure the gryphon rider, as any other member of the Argent Crusade would, but the vice admiral’s tongue was quicker than his.
“Unbelievable.” Keller kept shaking his head. “Unbelievable. How the hell did we not see this coming? Heck, are their numbers truly that great?”
The dwarf nodded, flinging a drop of sweat onto the ground. “We scour the land every day yet none of us have ever seen anything like this. Not since the Lich King fell.”
That sent a chill up their spines. Keller cupped his hand and shouted. A man clad in mail approached him. “Double the guards, speed up the evacuation and check our food provisions. I won’t have bloody plagued grain in my town.”
“As you command, Vice Admiral.” The man took his leave.
The shade hovered close to them but with a paladin among them Bolvar made sure it observed from a safe distance.
“Brrr.” Keller spat. “Heck is this chill I feel?”
Jameas gazed at the cliffs around them, flocks of birds flying in the same direction. “Death,” he said. “Cold grips the living when death knocks at their door.”
Both the dwarf and the vice admiral raised their eyebrows, the gryphon rider even scratched his head. “Orders?”
Keller rubbed his chin as the dwarf donned his helm. “Keep us updated on their whereabouts, and see if you gain more information. I bet that dead elf has a hand in this.”
“Let’s not just jump to conclusions now,” Jameas said, his voice sterner than he had wished. “Lord Tirion Fordring has explicitly stated that Sylvanas and her people are not behind this.”
“Hmm.” Keller sighed after the dwarf left. “I hope that is true.”
Jameas’ fingers reached for his mace, though he wasn’t sure why. A splendid weapon given to him by the Argent Crusade. The shield on his back had been with him much longer and while its steel glittered in the light and made it look like a new piece of equipment a pair of keen eyes would’ve sure noticed the scratches and dents it bore.
The weapon itself did not glow yet he felt uneasy.
“Vice Admiral.” A guard saluted him. “Another ship is almost ready to set sail.”
“Very well. Continue.”
An hour went by and Valgarde was a bit emptier than before. People still roamed around the town but not a single seagull or other bird flew above their heads. Only the gryphons and their riders made the skies look pleasant and less ominous.
The earth groaned.
Jameas’ eyes darted about the place, then they shifted to the vice admiral.
“Don’t look at me,” Keller said. “I haven’t had lunch yet.”
“This can’t b—”
The weapon glowed and shrieks came from the port. Jameas burst into a sprint, followed by Keller after he had ordered his guards to stay alert, and by the shade. A blend of screams, splashes, grunts and gasps rung in their ears. Jameas readied his shield as he entered the port.
People streamed towards the ship, cursing and yelling, shoving those who stood in their path, while others stayed as far away from the water as possible, even though they knew that evil was bound to besiege the town.
“What?” Keller said. “What the hell is going on? You!”
“Vice Admiral.” A guard stopped and spoke with a dry throat. “The waters are not safe, beasts have begun attacking people.”
“What sort of beasts?” Jameas joined in.
They all turned as another scream came from the sea. “Dead beasts,” the guard said as he faced them again. “They suddenly appeared in the fjord and took us by surprise.”
“Don’t just stand there then! Alert the captains and come back here!”
“As you command, Vice Admiral.” The guard left in a rush.
Before Keller could speak any further, Jameas made for the pier. The endless throng obstructed his view, but he caught glimpse of a shark leaping out of the water to snatch a person. He saw more people getting dragged below the surface and as he dashed forward he set his eyes upon a sea of red.
“Shark!”
Jameas looked to the left and raised his shield as a decomposed shark flew towards him. He pushed and sent the undead beast back into the water. Guards and paladins of the Argent Crusade formed two walls all along the pier while a high elven priest guided Valgarde’s citizens to the ship, all of them protected by the archers and riflemen on the decks.
“Oi! Paladin!” A captain popped out of nowhere. “We need your help on land! Keller’s orders.”
Jameas followed the captain’s lead, both of them running as fast as possible. “What’s the problem?”
“Undeads have been spotted near the graveyard.”
And as he said that the paladin’s weapon glowed brightly. “Quick, captain, quick!”
Smoke wisped upwards from the eastern part of the town, shutters and doors squeaked, rats ran left and right and those that were ill bit their own kind or any other living creature they came across.
“Rick? Carl?”
Jameas and the captain followed the voice and found a woman on her knees, tears running down her cheeks. Opposite her two skeletons, one of a grown man and one of a child, shambled forward.
“Light give you peace!”
A flash of light and the undead collapsed, though the woman was far from relieved. Jameas helped her up and nodded at the captain. “Take her to the ship, I’ll go to the graveyard.”
“Aye,” the captain replied. “Report to Keller once the undead have been put back to rest.”
Shrieks and roars came from the sky, but the paladin saw nothing. Then a gryphon cried in pain and as he crossed a street he stopped and stared at a barrel in the sky.
“What in the world?”
The barrel fell in another street not too far from him. Then another flew above his head and crashed into a building. A sickly green cloud wrapped itself around it.
“Over here!” A young man waved. “H—”
Jameas ran, faster than before, and struck down the ghoul that had leapt through a window and attacked the inexperienced guard.
“Thank you.” He covered his neck. “Truly, thank you.”
The paladin muttered a spell. “You should be fine. Keep an eye out or you won’t be so lucky next time.”
“Yes, sir. This way, please.”
The graveyard opened up before him. Guards stood in a line, waiting for the dead that they had once buried.
“Paladin! Help us out!”
“What’s the situation?” he asked as he approached them. “Have you lost anyone?”
Gryphon riders appeared overhead, only to vanish beyond the cliffs.
“No,” a guard with a moustache replied, “but some of our people were mourning their loved ones when the dead rose. Not everyone made it.”
Jameas sighed and muttered a silent prayer. He raised his weapon and pointed at the undead. “Do not let fear take hold of you. Let us give the dead peace!”
The guards cheered.
“Charge!” Another man said.
A barrel flew towards them. “Wait!” Jameas shouted.
It exploded upon impact, right between them and their enemy. The green gas annihilated the undead within the cloud.
“Back! Stay away from that damn thing!”
One guard fell, the gas already in his system. He grasped his throat, almost strangling himself. Then blood came out of his mouth, eyes and ears.
“Jellen, damn it. Away! Away now!”
More barrels rained upon the town. By the time they reached the port Valgarde was turning into a green ghost town.
“Madness!” Keller shouted. “Madness!” He spat. “You, Jin-Je-Jameas! Care to explain this?”
“Vice Admiral,” the paladin said, death all around him. “We have t—”
“Can’t you see? This is the work of that blasted dead elf! Only the Forsaken have this kind of weapon!”
“I ass—”
A building collapsed and gas poured out of it. The two rushed to safety with whoever was still alive.
“To the ship,” Keller said as they ran. “Valgarde is lost.”
The shade hovered by the water, a dead man to its right. The head jerked and looked straight into the shade’s eyes.
“This is only the beginning.”


“Highlord Fordragon.” Arno strode towards Bolvar. “Icecrown’s defences are being repaired, as you ordered.”
Bolvar observed the distant Crystalsong Forest, his hands resting on the dam’s balustrade. “Very well.”
“What’s the enemy’s status?”
“Valgarde and Warsong Hold have fallen.”
Arno cursed. “How long do we have?”
“A month...possibly.”
You’re being far too optimistic, Fordragon. The dead do not eat, they do not sleep, they do not tire, they do not drink. They’ll be here sooner than you expect.
“What’s the plan? We cannot bring the fight to them, our forces can barely protect Icecrown. We cannot rely on anyone that is…alive. How are”—he scattered flames as he swung a hand—“What the? How did I?”
Bolvar stood straight while Arno studied his hand. “There are…others that might help us, or at least, protect Northrend.”
Arno turned his hand once more in disbelief. “Who are you talking about?”
“The nerubians.”
“Nerubians? I thought they were all dead, and even if they aren’t, they were not in good terms with Lich King.”
“Which is why I need to have an audience with whoever is leading them.”
“Hmm.” Arno stroked his chin. “Shall I call that nerubian? Anarak?”
“He already knows.”
And indeed soon Anarak came scuttling towards them. “What does the Lich King desire?”
“I need to get into Azjol-Nerub,” Bolvar replied, eight eyes looking at him.
Anarak clicked his mandibles. “Yes, yes. There’s an entrance in the Dragonblight far to the west, but it may have been ravaged by the living, or by the Great Earthquake. There are, of course, other ways in, yes, many more. The nerubian kingdom is endless.”
“Tell me.”
The nerubian tilted his head. “Not too far from the Wrathgate, but not too close, lies another entrance. It may still be intact.”
Bolvar marched forward. “I’ll be going there now.”
“Shall I accompany you, sire?”
He shook his head. “Guard Icecrown while I’m gone.”
Anarak bowed. “As the Lich King commands.” He skittered away.
Arno neared Bolvar before he too left. “Are you sure? He probably knows the place better than anyone else here.”
The wind blowing from the south carried the sweet scents of the Crystalsong Forest. “I must earn their trust,” Bolvar said after breathing deeply. “An undead nerubian standing right next to me would not help.”
“I understand.” Arno let him go. “Luck be with you then, Highlord Fordragon. I shall oversee the repairs while you’re gone.”
Bolvar strode across the dam and across the land of Icecrown. Once again he strode into the citadel, and once again he stood before the Wrathgate, its jagged metal the only thing that separated him from the outside, from the place where he died.
The memories came back, no matter how hard he tried to forget them. The rattle of bones and chains, the biting cold, the unending corridors of the citadel, the eyes of the Lich King.
A grating sound and the gate began to rise. Snowflakes swirled inside and brushed his skin, the cool air filling his lungs.
“Father! Father!” A young Bolvar had once told his father. “I want to be a king!”
His father laughed and put both hands on his son's shoulders as he squatted. “One day, maybe. One day you'll be a king, my son, I promise you.”The voice echoed.
Bolvar embraced his old man in excitement and his smile widened as he saw his mother leaning against the door's frame.
They were all pictures and sounds that he held dear, so precious that he hoped they would stay with him forever. Yet when his father vanished and his mother and the background changed he once more realised that the days of the young Bolvar had come to an end. A woman stood there, though she was not a human.
Rulkan.
He tried remembering what he had just seen but the memory did not pop back in his head, as if it had been taken and sealed away. Thus, he marched on, though before he ventured any further he took a gander at the precise spot where he, Bolvar Fordragon, had died. He could almost see his body lying on the ground before it got warped by the dragons’ flames.
“We meet again, Highlord Fordragon.”
“You.”
Alexstrasza smiled. “You look well.”
Bolvar strode towards her and grabbed her neck. “Well? Do you call this well?” Steam billowed from his nose. “You cast this curse on me.”
She struggled to speak, but she did not attempt to free herself. “I gave you life.”
“You should’ve let me die.”
“Your time had not come yet.” Her eyes were inches from his. “The world still needs you.”
He exhaled and released his grip. “Why have you come here?”
“There’s a lot of…concern regarding the sudden awakening of the undead.” She began circling around him. “Many wanted to march into Icecrown and slay whoever commands the undead in the north, yet the Argent Crusade dissuaded them from doing so. I believe you’ve spoken with Tirion Fordring.”
“Get to the point.”
“I came here to see you with my own eyes, to see if what I heard was true, to reassure my kin that the Scourge no longer poses a threat. The Aspects are no more. We are but mortals now. We may still be able to help, but our powers have diminished. You are the key to our survival, Highlord Fordragon. Defend Northrend from the evil that has returned. Defend your home. Defend Azeroth.”
“The living are not ready for another Lich King,” he said before she walked away.
“Oh, but they will be.” She turned. “Or they will perish.”
Bolvar huffed, the former Aspect of the red dragonflight disappearing in the distance.
“Until we meet again, Bolvar Fordragon.”


The trek through the valley took a while. He came across hundreds of dragons, their skeletons jutting out of the snow, and at the start of his journey he even caught glimpse of the resting place of dragon of old, the biggest he had ever seen.
The western part of the Dragonblight came into view. Trees and other plants were a sight for sore eyes, though they seemed so out of place in that immense graveyard. An hour went by before he reached the place he had seen in Anarak’s mind. To that day both the elements and the vegetation had played a part in keeping it hidden from unwanted guests, but that was no longer the case.
Bolvar trod carefully into the tunnel, roots hanging above his head and cobwebs all over the place. As the light died down he found himself in a tunnel carved by the nerubians ages ago. The walls were adorned with depictions of all sorts, symbols that meant nothing to him, and here and there luminescent fungi helped him see where he was going.
The first room he set foot in proved how sophisticated the nerubians were. Books, scrolls and tablets were strewn all over the library. There were various stone objects, some fairly outlandish, others familiar like a sundial he happened to see on a stool.
The second room wasn’t any different, the nerubian’s craftsmanship was awe-inspiring. The Scourge had adopted the same architecture, yet it had never looked so perfect in the hands of the undead.
Deeper he went, and more apparent the tragedy that befell this mighty people became. Dust and ice could not conceal the residue of the war against the Lich King. Broken weapons lay on the floor, blood stains could be found where warriors drew their last breath, shattered stonework stood in stark contrast to the magnificence he had seen earlier.
They must already know you're here.
He took a few turns and ended up in a long hallway, its ceiling taller than any other room. At his sides were seating areas, barely visible in the darkness that attempted to swallow him whole but instead quivered before him. Not a single shadowy tendril dared come closer.
There were no fungi here, only braziers. He stopped to listen and then raised his arms that glowed like burning coal. The braziers burst into flames, all at the same time. Hundreds of eyes glared at him.
The ruckus that followed could not be matched even by a band of drunken dwarves. The hall resonated with the continuous chitter-chatter and click-clack, until the nerubian opposite him lifted a limb and the noise faded away.
“Why has the king of the dead come here?” The nerubian spoke.
“To whom do I speak?”
“I am Ixit, king of Azjol-Nerub.”
Bolvar heard mandibles clicking and whispers. The Lich King’s new appearance had mystified the nerubians, though Ixit wasn’t as interested in his looks as them. “I come here in peace.”
Ixit’s mandibles twitched. “Peace? He who annihilated my people and turned them into slaves now comes in peace?”
“As you can see,” Bolvar said as he showed him his hand, “I am not the one who slew your people.”
The clicking became louder. “You are not?” Ixit’s eyes studied him. “Then why do you wear his crown?”
“A sacrifice I had to make.”
Ixit glanced at his people and thought deeply. “What is it that you want?”
There was no reason to delay this any further. “Allies.”
How easily words stir the hearts of sentient beings. Mentioning an alliance made the nerubians a bit too eager to leave their respective spots. Ixit had to calm them down a second time. “The nerubians will never ally with the dead.” He rasped. “Be gone.”
“Do you think that the previous Lich King would have come all the way to Azjol-Nerub just to have an audience with you?” Bolvar boomed. “Do you think that Arthas would’ve just let you rebuild your broken kingdom? That he would’ve spared the eggs that you guard day and night?” The tension was palpable. “I could’ve burned everything and everyone here in your domain, yet I’ve come here to seek your aid.”
A nerubian approached Ixit and muttered something. His other followers instead would’ve attacked Bolvar if their king had not stopped them. “Speak then. Why would we fight for you? Why would we concern ourselves with the petty matters of those who live above?” he asked and shot a look at those who had not yet hushed.
“A dreadlord plans to claim Northrend for himself and the demons he serves. He will succeed if he’s not stopped and the Scourge alone cannot defeat him. His army will not hesitate to slaughter your people and end your reign if the land falls into his hands.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Do not fight for me, fight for yourselves.”
All the nerubians turned to their king. “Hmm.” Ixit pondered. “Hmm.” Then he stood straight and nodded. “You are not the same Lich King, that is true. You gave the Traitor King peace, so I’ve heard. You have not used the dark powers within that helm, that is also true.” He clicked his mandibles. “But what was done cannot be erased, what the Scourge and the Lich King did in the past cannot be forgiven or forgotten.”
Ixit’s face was inscrutable. “Will you not fight?”
“No, we will not fight,” the nerubian said, “but we will help.”

---

V
The Holy & the Damned

Two weeks earlier.


“We can’t get any closer than this. They’ll see us.”
The cultists observed Light’s Hope Chapel from the safety of woods, the pine trees towering above them.
“What about the lich?”
A flock of birds startled them. “He’ll be here soon.”
“Does he have a plan?”
“Of course he does.”
“But the chapel stands on sacred ground, how are we supp—”
“Sacred ground, desecreated ground,” a voice came, the cold that followed it unnerving. “what difference does it make? In the end both are just that, dirt, nothing more.”
“Lord Kel’thuzad.” They all knelt. “The damned stand ready.”
The lich hovered past them and studied the chapel. “Hmm.” Frost began to cover the tree close to him. “Yes…the Lich King will be greatly pleased to see the rest of the fragments. Has the first one been delivered?”
“We only received confirmation that our cultists arrived safely in Northrend some time ago. If the Lich King has returned, it should already be in his hands.”
“Excellent.” Kel’thuzad opened a tome. “Now…”
“How shall we proceed?”
Chargers rode into Light’s Hope Chapel, the pounding of hooves reaching their ears.
“A direct assault would not be wise.” The lich sifted through the pages. “The Argent Crusade have greatly improved the chapel’s defences, but walls and towers can be easily bypassed. All we need is the right spe—ahh.” He slid a bony finger across a page. “This should do.”



---

Notes:

- I wanted to give you a glimpse of what the Cult of the Damned is up to and I thought it would be more appropriate to have a chapter just for this part, even though it's very short.
- While I do not know what will actually happen to the fragments in the game, nor where they currently are, I think that Light's Hope Chapel seems like a reasonable place to keep them.
- "The damned stand ready" is a sentence often uttered by the cultists in Warcraft III.
- Things will get more interesting in the following chapters.

---

VI
Reclaiming Northrend

The gargoyles flew past the mountains of Icecrown, past endless icy expanses and barren lands until the clouds above Sholazar Basin enveloped them whole.
A crunching sound and a gargoyle was gone. One by one they vanished and soon Bolvar lost contact with them. His fingers twitched.
Once again he stood on the dam overlooking the Crystalsong Forest, brooding. There was no sound there except for the wind. No drums of war, no grinding or clicking of teeth, no roars or voices, not even the spirit in the helm bothered him and while his silence was unusual Bolvar dared not ask. The peacefulness was welcome.
“You’ve been awfully silent, orc,” Bolvar said hours later yet the spirit did not answer.
It was then that he felt the eyes of someone else, though he already knew who it was. The Knights of the Ebon Blade had been studying him for some time and even before he had awakened they had never been too far from Icecrown. Bolvar turned and while his eyes saw nothing his mind saw everything. Fear, he sensed briefly, then rage, then calmness, and when the knight disappeared Bolvar focused on the dreadlord, his armies advancing every second that passed.
Most of the Howling Fjord was now part of his domain and now the dead forced their way into the Grizzly Hills. Zul’drak would be next, though Mal’ganis already had a few servants there and their numbers were bound to increase, even though the Drakkari trolls would have none of their filth in their land. Bolvar doubted they’d have a say in the matter.
All outposts and fortresses had been evacuated. Both the Alliance and the Horde in the Borean Tundra fled to the coasts surrounding the Dragonblight, thousands of refugees flocking to Moa’ki Harbour, overwhelming the tuskarr. The taunka on the other hand did not intend to abandon their beloved villages. Northrend was their land, the only place where they would live, or die.
Bolvar thought the nerubians were of the same mind, seeing that he hadn’t received word from them or spotted any of them on the surface. He hoped their king would truly help when the time came and not cower below ground. Bolvar would know soon, as the dreadlord’s forces were crossing the tundra at an unbelievable speed, leaving death in their wake.
The dead had also begun flooding Sholazar Basin and though wolvar, gorlocs and whatever other creatures dwell there would slow them down, he hardly believed they’d pose a serious threat to them.
I’ll say this once again, Fordragon. Raise the dead in these lands before it's too late. You cannot hope to defeat the dreadlord with these numbers and Icecrown's walls won't stand long against his endless army.
He huffed. “I've already told you, orc. I will do no such thing.”
His body moved uncontrollably as both he and Ner'zhul came to blows. Fool! His legs, arms and fingers trembled. Fool! Do you not see how blind you are? Don't you understand that this will be the end of both you and me?
“Then so be it.”
They wrestled again, the chaos in his mind unbearable. His legs gave in and he fell on his knees while his arms and the rest of his body wouldn’t obey him. He reached for his head, roared and struck the dam with his fists, ice falling down below as the whole structure shook.
Bolvar panted, and though Ner'zhul was a mere spirit trapped in a helm it was as though he too was struggling to breathe.
We can fight as long as we want, human. Ner'zhul paused. But in the end we both know what must be done.
He pulled himself up and rested on the balustrade. “Get it into your head, spirit. I will never be Arthas,” he said. “Never.”
And as he regained his composure he returned to the citadel, the cold embrace of the wind the only thing that soothed him. The repairs were almost complete, he saw, yet as it pained him to admit, the walls would only give them a few moments of respite. Icecrown had already been breached once, after all.
“Let them come. Frostmourne hungers.”
Arno raised an eyebrow as he saw Bolvar shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. “Highlord Fordragon, is everything all right?”
He curled his fingers into a fist and then his chest rose and slowly fell as he opened his hand. “They’ll be here soon.”
Arno nodded. “We’ll be ready for them, but—”
“But we do not have enough soldiers to defend all of Icecrown, I know.” Two figures appeared in the distance. “That is why we must concentrate our efforts on this very place, right beside the citadel.”
“Corp’rethar cannot fall at any cost,” Arno agreed. “Though it would be wise to attack them while our outer defences are still intact.”
“Indeed. Have you found anything?”
“Not much, just a few explosives and a couple of catapults. Some work fine, others need to be repaired. The thing is, these undead aren’t exactly the best at making repairs. Also…”
“Hmm?”
“I…I think I may have some of your power. I never had any interest in magic yet somehow I have control over fire.”
The figures came closer. “Then burn them.” Bolvar said. “Burn them all.”
Arno felt his hair prick up and a chill take hold of his heart. Bolvar’s voice was usually never that blood-curdling. Then he looked backwards.
A huge skeletal construct shambled towards them. A crack run across its skull and ended where its nose would’ve been. It ground its teeth as it came to a halt and all it did was stare at them with its glowing blue eyes.
The vrykul that had come with the construct was just as fearsome. “My life for the death god,” the warrior said as he knelt, the axe on his back as big as a human.
Between the two of them was another former servant of Arthas. Arno had not noticed him and in truth neither Bolvar would’ve if he had not been the one who summoned him. “Boom!” The gnome raised his hands in the air, bombs in each one of them. “Boom!” he repeated. “Boom, boom!”
“What about them?” Arno said, his hand clasping the hilt of his weapon.
“They will aid us in the battle to come.” Then at the mere thought the construct, the gnome and the vrykul went on their way.
“Arthas was certainly fond of foul creatures.”
“Fond of war…and death.” His head tingled. “We must make haste.”
“I shall get back to work right away, Highlord Fordragon. But what about the Wrathgate? They will attack us from the south too, if what you told me is true.”
“It has been reinforced.” Then Bolvar remembered Tirion, Alexstrasza and the nerubians. “There’s naught more we can do.”
Arno bowed. “As you say, Highlord Fordragon. It will be a pleasure fighting alongside you.”
His head tingled again. The time is nigh.


Smooth crystal-like walls surrounded him, outside lush green grass bent in the breeze. Dozens of orcs communed with their ancestors, others uttered prayers or simply remained silent.
“Rulkan, I…”
The ghost shook its head in disgust. “Do not ever return, Ner’zhul. You have shamed yourself, you have forsaken everything you stood for and betrayed your people. You have betrayed me.”
Another vision, another place Bolvar had never seen, another event Bolvar had never experienced. A red demonic creature channelled a spell, massive pain consuming whoever owned the eyes Bolvar was seeing through as his body was being torn apart and his soul pulled forth. All he heard were screams, deafening screams that would’ve made anyone’s ears bleed, and laughter, loud and unrestrained. The demon before him relished every second that passed, yet the pain inflicted to his victim did not completely sate his desire for vengeance.
A second vision and the frozen throne appeared, black armour encased within.
“Rulkan?”
Mind your own memories, Fordragon.


The air was heavy with death.
No wind dared howl through Icecrown, no sound dared disturb the surreal quietness, no living creature dared show itself.
Weeks had passed and now his head tingled for the third time. “They’re here,” Bolvar said.
Gargoyles were perched on any peak that gave a good view of the oncoming enemy, their bodies turned to stone. They blended in well with the dreary environment and even if they were attacked their stone forms made them almost impervious to anything. Dozens were stationed around Icecrown and Bolvar had kept the strongest and the swiftest close to the Avalanche, a path that the previous Lich King had used to invade and taint the paradise that was Sholazar Basin. He wondered if the Titans’ queer devices would thwart the dreadlord’s plans, or give him the upper hand, if he managed to exploit them.
A few gargoyles kept watch over the Dragonblight’s western border where the undead were bound to appear. So far they had only espied refugees.
But it was not Mal'ganis that now concerned Bolvar. Something dark, sinister and evil, something all too familiar had found its way into Icecrown. He looked to the south-east and saw Anarak skittering towards him.
“Sire.” The nerubian bowed. “The Cult of the Damned wishes to have an audience with you. They claim to have recovered all of Frostmourne’s fragments.”
The news caught both him and the spirit by surprise, though Ner’zhul had suspected it all along. Of course.
Somehow his hand was eager to grasp the weapon's hilt while his mind and heart flinched at the name of the cursed blade. “I will meet them now. Fetch me the other fragment.”
The Cult of the Damned had waited him out in the cold close to the citadel, none of them complaining. Anarak had come and gone, leaving the last piece of Frostmourne in the Lich King’s keeping. All of the fragments had been laid on a slab of saronite and the mere sight of them stirred something inside Bolvar. Thousands, millions had lost their soul to the weapon, not just commoners or mindless aristocrats, but kings, such as Terenas Menethil II or Anasterian Sunstrider, people he had admired his entire life such as Uther the Lightbringer, men and women who had made a name for themselves like the great Antonidas or the ranger-general of Silvermoon, Sylvanas Windrunner. The list went on and on. One could spend a month counting how many people Arthas had slain with Frostmourne, and maybe that wouldn’t be enough.
“My king,” one said after he and his followers knelt. “We have brought you Frostmourne, as you requested.”
Bolvar glanced at the fragments once more before addressing them. “You shall be rewarded when the time comes,” he said, though he meant none of that, “but not now, not here.”
“Aye, my king. The lich has informed us. He sends his regards.”
“Who?”
“Kel’thuzad, my king. He eagerly awaits you in the Eastern Kingdoms, but he knows that you currently have other matters to attend to. We shan’t delay your plans any further.”
So the lich is behind all of this. That explains much.
Bolvar gave them leave yet he had to get rid of them sooner or later. He couldn’t have the Cult of the Damned roaming about, but he couldn’t simply put them to the torch. Not at this very moment, not when Mal’ganis was knocking at his door.
Kel’thuzad was a much bigger problem. Cunning and wise, he had probably been Arthas’ most useful and loyal servant, and the Book of Medivh had only made him a greater asset. His knowledge was unlike anything the world could imagine.
There is still power contained within these fragments, Ner’zhul said as Bolvar stood before the fragments. Reforge it, Fordragon. Frostmourne hungers.
Even Bolvar sensed the power in them as his hand hovered above them. “No.” The fragments began to vibrate and whatever magic was in them writhed and shrieked as it seeped out and wisped upwards, vanishing. They rattled continuously and became a molten red as they moved closer to each other. To Ner’zhul horror they merged, the heat and glow comparable to the belly of a volcano, and moulded themselves into the weapon that Frostmourne was never meant to be.
“Firemaw seethes.”


He stared at the weapon and for a moment he was Arthas again, gazing at Frostmourne encased in a block of ice and then gripping it, testing its weight. He thought he could still feel its cold hilt, its perfect edge. But this was no Frostmourne. There was no price to pay, no curse to bear.
Yet there was no reason to rejoice. He had already paid the price, he already bore a curse.
His fingers wrapped themselves around the hilt and instantly power surged through his body, the sensation stupefying. It weighed nothing, Bolvar noticed as he studied it, and the runes were different, as was the energy radiating from it. Unlike Frostmourne, it felt pure, cleansing, life-giving.
The sound of a horn bounced off every wall and stone in Icecrown. Bolvar marched west, his mind monitoring the undead that would soon cross into the Dragonblight and those that were making their way out of Sholazar Basin. Firemaw glimmered in his hand, snowflakes turning into vapour as they touched the blade.
He passed the Horror Gate, leaving the rest of his army behind him. The sky was swamped with grey clouds, unmoving, threatening, foreboding. The Valley of Fallen Heroes, as it was called by the living, was a bitter place, much more than the rest of Icecrown. Relics of war still haunted the valley, reminders of a time that many would like to forget.
From far away he had seen his soldiers gathered behind the battlements and when he reached the wall and walked upwards to the top they all turned towards him. Arno nodded but wasn’t sure whether he wanted to smile or frown at the sight of Firemaw, while Boom, the gnome with an obsession for explosives, and all the other undead only stared at him, awaiting orders. Behind him on the ground were most of the catapults that had been salvaged, boulders and chunks of saronite ready to be fired.
Bolvar looked beyond the wall, to his left a gargoyle observing the landscape from a lofty vantage point. The enemy army loomed in the distance, an endless sea of black that quickly rose up the slope and poured through the mountainous path into the frozen wasteland surrounding Icecrown.
A swarm of bats brought the army to a standstill. Mal’ganis appeared, grinning as always.
“Death knocks at your door, my puny king.” He bellowed as he extended his arms.
Firemaw rose high into the air for all to see and then Bolvar pointed it at the dreadlord who smiled no longer. The air around the whole weapon shimmered, its runes gave off a warm glow, and soon after the tip of the blade became as bright as fire.
“I am death.”
The land before the wall burst into flames, fissures and cracks spreading in all directions, fiery tongues within the inferno. Mal’ganis narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw as the chaos settled down and gave the signal to advance.
The damned surged forth, and the flames of hell welcomed them.

---

VII
The Siege of Icecrown

“Fire!”
Arrows were loosed, boulders were tossed and spells were cast as Arno roared. They all found their mark, but for every undead that fell two more appeared behind it. Another flurry of arrows and more foul blood tainted the snow and whenever the archers missed the catapults finished what they started.
A huge eerie teal stone rained down on Mal’ganis. He shifted forms and all the stone did was pass through a storm of bats. Meanwhile his forces crossed the smouldering ground that had been ice and snow just moments earlier, limbs splashing in puddles and streams of water, and as the walls and gate towered over them they charged headlong.
Bolvar’s skeletal archers fired again, their arrows embedding themselves in decaying organs or pale flesh or whizzing through empty eye sockets and out of the back of skulls. Those that fell were far fewer than those that lingered on and soon hundreds of undead slammed against the gate and the walls. Boom cackled as he could finally throw his beloved bombs while the gargoyles began picking their targets, soaring up high and sending them to their deaths or tearing them to shreds. One frost wyrm swooped down and froze everything in its wake.
But hundreds more corpses ran past the icy statues and renewed their attack against the gate. Bolvar saw some of them trying to climb the wall, using their claws and weapons to succeed. Saronite was no common metal though. It was sharp, resilient and resistant to most kinds of spells. Yet not indestructible.
The army marching into the Dragonblight caught his attention for a second, then Arno shouted.
“Take cover!”
Enemy meat wagons peppered the whole area with the dreadlord’s own warriors. They hurtled over their heads and slammed into a mix of dirt and ice. Even if they broke their limbs they moved on, unrelenting. They attacked the Lich King’s catapults and the few cultists there defended themselves, their hands weaving dark spells that slew Mal’ganis’ servants. More corpses flew into Icecrown and most, if not all, rose back up again as they touched the ground. A cultist gladly met his end, sure that he’d receive the Lich King’s blessing, another commanded his pet to do his work but then perished when another score of corpses crashed against him and the catapult behind him.
And in the meantime the Crystalsong Forest faced its greatest challenge yet. Plants wilted, leaves fell, and the air grew thick as the dreadlord’s other army swarmed the forest. The crystallised flora reacted to the invaders, singing, humming, releasing an ancient magic that destroyed many ghouls as if they were glass.
But Mal’ganis had expected this, and had prepared accordingly, as the forest was crucial for his plan. If he wanted to lay siege to Icecrown on all fronts, the crystal paradise had to be his.
Golems came to the forest’s aid as the enemy delved further into the forest but ultimately could do nothing against the forsaken’s plague, the might of the towering infernals and the dreadlord’s servants’ dark magic.
He’s come prepared.
“Frost wyrms!”
Bolvar ordered more of his warriors to take care of the undead that had made it into Icecrown and then faced the great flying beasts. Their glowing eyes were visible even from where he stood and as they came closer they roared.
“Attack! Attack them!” Arno pointed.
The archers lifted their bows and loosed their arrows. The frost wyrms swooped down, snapping at the gargoyles that attempted to slow them down. Bolvar’s own wyrm joined the fight after many gargoyles fell, followed by four smaller dragons.
Then Bolvar leaned over the parapet, only to see hundreds, thousands of undead trying to clamber up the wall but to no avail. The gate instead grated but still held strong. He shifted his eyes to one of the enemy wyrms that had just slain a dragon and then targeted the Lich King himself.
“The dragons’ flames sealed my fate.”
As the dragon opened its jaws Bolvar thrust out his hand. A torrent of fire struck the beast and the cold glow of its body began fighting against bright red flames. It shrieked as it slammed against the ramparts, taking Bolvar and a few archers with it as it flew further into Icecrown.
“Fordragon!” a distance voice called him.
The dragon clawed and Bolvar dodged, crawling his way to the head. He gripped the vertebrae as the beast rolled and hit rocky spikes and cliffs, losing altitude as the flames kept on burning. Then it spun and flew at great speed back towards the wall.
Both came down not too far from the battlefield as Firemaw embedded itself into the wyrm’s thick skull. The blue glow vanished and the dragon moved no more.
A cracking sound, and Bolvar saw boulders decimating the army on the ramparts. He pulled his sword out of the skull and rushed forward. Mal’ganis’ pets soon caught sight of him.
Firemaw severed limbs and heads, cutting through bone as if it were butter. Rotten skin sizzled at the mere touch of the blade as he cut his way through the undead, running faster and faster as the gate shook violently. He let his warriors take care of the other ghouls in pursuit and dashed up the stairs onto the ramparts.
Arno exchanged a nod with him and saved Boom from another boulder. Bolvar then looked down, mindless corpses climbing over each other and using the massive craters in the walls to their own advantage.
“Look out!”
Bolvar took cover and then saw that the dreadlord wasn’t just using boulders. Beside him lay a head made of stone, its right eye cracked and part of its chin missing. A glimpse into the past and he soon realised that it belonged to a titanic watcher. He rose and placed a hand on the saronite as he gazed into the distance, singeing the corrupted metal. A massive magnataur bolted towards the gate, just like the one the shade had seen in Warsong Hold. Bolvar lifted Firemaw again, but then both he and Mal’ganis jerked their heads to the south.
Between the Borean Tundra and the Dragonblight the earth groaned and suddenly a fissure zigzagged its way northwards, devouring everything and everyone it came across. The undead poured down into the darkness like a waterfall until those that remained halted, unable to cross. The creatures closest to the border with the Howling Fjord beheld a similar scene. The land caved in under the undead’s feet and the river they had intended to cross began filling the chasm with water.
Mal’ganis pursed his lips as Bolvar faced him.
The Dragonblight may have earned a moment of respite, but Icecrown is far from safe. Bolvar’s colossal skeletal construct stood watch before Mord’rethar, swaying and grinding its teeth, wielding a sword that matched its size. Its bones creaked as it spotted the enemy. The battle has just begun.
“Defend the gate!” Arno flung fire. “Damn it!” He set alight a ghoul that had managed to clamber up the damaged wall. “They’re scaling the wall! Don’t let them climb!”
A frostbolt shattered to pieces a ghoul that had just leapt towards the wall but the same mage that had cast the spell found itself crushed by a boulder. Boom bombarded anything moving below and then concentrated his efforts on the magnataur. Once again Firemaw gathered energy and once again Bolvar was interrupted. Arno beheaded another undead and gaped at the creature behind the attack. “What in the world is that?”
A being of obsidian soared above them. It attacked them with dark magic, hurled by the two batons in its stony hands, both sizzling with energy.
Obsidian destroyers, Ner’zhul said. Do not underestimate them.
Bolvar dodged another dark bolt and as his frost wyrms took care of the obsidian destroyer he noticed that Mal’ganis’ army was making way for something. Then he incinerated the undead climbing up and bathed the magnataur in flames, yet the latter only bellowed and convulsed and soon demonic runes appeared on its body. It grew in size, its eyes became the home of two green flames, it developed demonic features and surrounded itself with an aura of fel fire.
The gate bent.
“Boom!” The gnome was giddy with excitement. “Boom, boom!”He jumped down, two bombs in each hand and countless more glued to his body.
“Wait!” Arno reached out his hand but didn’t catch him. “Bloody hell.”
A rain of bones, saronite and green cinders followed the explosion. The gate was still intact, but its metal was all twisted.
“This is madness,” Arno said as he glanced at the enemy undead within and outside Icecrown.
Another obsidian destroyer came after the first one fell, but this time Firemaw obliterated it. “Stand back,” Bolvar said.
“What are yo—”
He plunged his sword into the saronite. Cracks in the wall glowed as Firemaw’s energy coursed downwards until flames erupted out of the ground beneath all of the dreadlord’s servants that were laying siege. Bolvar channelled more energy, feeling the saronite’s unwillingness to let Firemaw’s energy pass, and a molten vein ran down the wall and towards the undead within Icecrown, burning them as soon as it reached them. He exhaled deeply as he rose.
Do not squander the power you wield. Even with Firemaw you still aren’t close to full strength.
He cast his eyes down. The saronite beneath his feet had blackened.
“They’re pushing something!” Arno pointed and more ghouls flew into Icecrown.
Bolvar located the strange contraption plowing through the snow. It resembled nothing a human, dwarf or gnome would produce. Then the barely intact face of the titanic watcher popped in his head. “It’s a siege weapon. Do not let them activate it!”
The catapults still functioning redirected their aim to their new target while a frost wyrm darted in the same direction to freeze the machine before it got too close. Boulders took to the skies, smoke and cold air washing over them, and soon after came falling down. The first one crushed a whole row of undead, the second whizzed past the machine, a third and a fourth missed their mark and rolled across the white desert.
As Bolvar skewered two ghouls and they flared up, his frost wyrm roared, clawed an enemy gargoyle and inhaled deeply. A swarm of bats blinded it whilst it dived and then an abomination hooked it and pulled it to the ground.
“Fire again!” Bolvar incinerated more and more corpses, his molten heart beating like a war drum. Acrid fumes reminded him of the construct guarding Mord’rethar, now sweeping his sword against waves of undead crashing against it.
The machine slowed down and Bolvar lifted his hand. As he bent his fingers flames enveloped the boulder above his head and channels of lava appeared in the stone. It flew past the wall, over thousands of heads and mounds of snow, through arrows, spells and bolts, and then the machine fired.


A land of fire and a cracked jewel, a shattered blade and a storm of cinders.
“Bolvar.”
Bolvar found himself spinning through the air. Amidst the stone, bone, ice and metal that had become airborne he saw his warriors, some still whole and some missing body parts, all of them careering away from the blast. He thought he caught glimpse of another explosion far into the distance, right where the machine was supposed to be.
He tightened his grip on Firemaw as he tumbled down into the snow. He bounced and rolled until his blade buried itself in the ice, slowing him down. Then he leapt aside as debris bombarded the area and threw himself again as the saronite gate fell and screeched. Jagged pieces of ice and metal impaled many of his undead and sometimes even sliced them in half. He destroyed a lump of saronite bound to hit him and turned towards the enemy army that marched over the smouldering ruins of the wall and into the Lich King’s domain.
A curse caught his attention. Arno lay under a blanket of snow, pummelling a pair of ghouls that sought to rip him apart. The soldier of the Ashen Verdict broke the neck of the first, freed himself and slew the second with a mix of fire and steel.
The construct in charge of defending Mord’rethar had also failed to protect Icecrown. The Forsaken’s plague had turned it into pulp.
It won’t be long before Aldur’thar falls, Ner’zhul said and just as he spoke Bolvar sensed a new presence in the north-east. Through the eyes of a gargoyle he observed the mountain range between Icecrown and the Storm Peaks. Holes appeared at the foot of the mountain and undead jormungar slithered out of them. Glowing eyes hovered in the darkness of the tunnels and as more holes appeared another army streamed into Icecrown.
Bolvar’s eyes darted everywhere, his chest rising and falling.
“Fordragon!”
The wind swirled around him and more of his soldiers met their end at the hands of the dreadlord’s forces.
“Highlord Fordragon!”
A tiger pounced. Bolvar ducked and slashed upwards, cutting and searing its belly. “Retreat!” he yelled.
Arno waved at the cultists still alive. “Back to the citadel, now!” He faced Bolvar. “We’ve got to destroy the bridge that leads to Corp’rethar before it’s too late.”
Bolvar nodded. His thoughts echoed in the heads of the skeletons guarding the bridge. They sprang into action and lit four fuses. The rest of his army dashed past him and then he too began running. “What were those images I saw earlier?”
They were all part of a vision.
He sliced a putrid orc in his path. “A vision? What was it showing me?”
Ner’zhul’s words were cold and flat. Your death.
Bolvar slew another mindless beast and shoved his shoulder against a ghoul. He glanced backwards as the bridge leading to Corp’rethar collapsed and noticed that the enemy undead had come to a halt. Aldur’thar soon burst open and at last all of Mal’ganis armies gathered in the valley. Before turning around he saw a cloud of bats swirling in front of the sea of corpses.
The gate closed behind him. Anarak bowed and the vrykul knelt as he joined his army.
“What now?” Arno said quietly. “Our numbers can’t stand against them.” He nodded towards the gate. “Even the archers up there won’t do much, no matter how true their aim is.”
Thoughts and memories engulfed his mind. He stared at his hand, wondering the extent of his power. The cracks in his skin glowed while snowflakes cascaded down, hissing whenever they touched him. The verse of an elven song he could barely remember echoed in his head.

An Karanir Thanagor

He closed his fist, smoke escaping from between his fingers, and a frost wyrm landed next to him. “Protect Icecrown while I’m gone,” he said as he mounted and before Arno could utter a word he vanished beyond the citadel.


This is no mere dragon. If you lose control…all of Northrend will burn.
Bolvar flew past the Wrathgate and into the Dragonblight. As his frost wyrm stooped down, the remains of the beast of old became visible. Enormous ribs protruded out of the snow and its spine stretched as far as the eye could see.
At his command the wyrm left him right at the centre of the boneyard and headed back to Icecrown. He switched Firemaw to his left hand, took a few steps forward and went down on one knee. He swept the snow away and gently placed his fist on the surface. Slowly but steadily the air blurred and whirled around his arm. Then he slammed the ground with all his strength and molten cracks branched off from the point of impact, fissures running in all directions. The land began to quake as he stood and from below came a roar, the loudest he had ever heard. Eyes bigger than Bolvar himself emerged, red fireballs burning within bony eye sockets. A dragon more terrifying than anything the world had ever seen rose behind him.
Galakrond was alive.



---


Notes:

- I hope it's not too short for you and I dearly hope you like what I've written so far.


Trivia:


- Obsidian Destroyers are undead units present in Warcraft III

- "An Karanir Thanagor" is the verse of the song called O Thanagor (the WoW OST "Arthas, my son" and "Invincible" feature the same song)


Suggested Music:

Audiomachine - Army of Kings
Audiomachine - Breath and Life
Audiomachine - Path to Freedom
World of Warcraft OST - Arthas, my son
World of Warcraft OST - Invincible
Craig Armstrong - Escape

---

VIII
Everburning



“All fear Galakrond. All flee or hide...or die.”

The wind picked up.
Arno squeezed the hilt of his weapon as he faced the mountains in the south. “First an earthquake, now the wind.” Corp’rethar shuddered, the burning fists of an infernal pounding on the gate. “I dearly hope you know what you’re doing,” he said quietly before turning towards the enemy.
“Ready the army,” a skeleton clad in iron said.
“Huh?” Snow, dust and small rocks began rolling as the wind grew stronger. Arno couldn’t help but stare at the ground before replying. “Ready the army? How are we supp—”
A sound, a feeling, an intensifying unease, and all of Icecrown gazed at the mountains beyond the citadel.
Bolvar stood alone on the tallest peak, nothing but clouds and snow surrounding him. A mountain slowly rose behind him, increasing in size with every second that passed, dwarfing him and everything around it. Hurricane winds blew the snow off stone and ice, clouds sped away and a great shadow covered the land as two fireballs appeared in the sky.
And a moment later it became clear that it was no mere mountain that they were seeing. Arno’s mouth opened wide, Mal’ganis pursed his lips and took a step back as Galakrond appeared in the sky.
“By the Light.” Arno found his faith.
Bolvar climbed on top of the Father of Dragons and took flight. The massive proto-drake flew over the Lich King’s army and roared, stirring the hearts of his people. All the undead under his control let out a battle cry in unison, and all of their eyes lost their cold glow and became a fiery orange. Arno felt the sudden surge of adrenaline but he held back the urge to scream. Smiling, he strode forward. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.” He raised his weapon. “For the Lich King!”
“For the Lich King!”
Thus they charged, the ground trembling more than ever, the rattle of bone and the clinking of metal filling the air.
Bolvar heard the gate burst asunder. He returned his gaze to the enemy, to the countless corpses advancing on the citadel, and as he saw the barrels containing the Forsaken’s plague rage welled up in him. “Burn,” he said.
Galakrond roared, folded his blazing wings, and hurtled downwards. As the sky appeared to be falling warm light bathed the landscape and warm air washed over it after Galakrond spread his wings to slow the descent. His massive jaws opened and a storm of fire engulfed everything below him, leaving ash and vapour in his wake. Rivers of ice turned into rivers of fire and scalding water, structures of the old nerubian empire that had been hidden by the glacier revealed themselves for the first time and for some their re-emergence spelt their end, the plague barrels exploded and their foul green gas burnt away, the enemy numbers thinned, and all of Icecrown underwent irreversible changes.
Stop meddling with the dreadlord’s pets, Ner’zhul said as Galakrond turned before swooping down again. Find him and end this once and for all!
Bolvar’s eyes darted about the place, fire and ice wherever he looked. It was then that he met Mal’ganis’ spiteful gaze.
Galakrond devoured an enemy frost wyrm and descended. He crushed an infernal as he landed, the ground shaking, and as Bolvar jumped down the great dragon took to the skies and attacked anything that could threaten the Lich King.
When he took a step forward mist swooshed from the enemy army and settled between him and the dreadlord. Hundreds of kvaldir appeared, the same he had seen on the frozen sea north of Icecrown. Ahead of them stood Hrothgar, the ornate spear in his hand.
They rushed forward, the mist following them, concealing their bodies and muffling their footsteps. Firemaw heated up as they came. An axe cut through the mist and shattered into myriads of smouldering pieces after Firemaw rose to meet it. From the corner of his eye he saw a spearhead flying towards him. He stepped back and the weapon pierced the eye of another kvaldir who shrieked and dissolved. Hrothgar then appeared and thrust his spear, missing. Bolvar reached out but Hrothgar vanished and his fingers instead grasped the face of another warrior with a braided beard. He slammed him to the ground and left a charred corpse behind him.
Hrothgar attacked again and turned into mist as Firemaw almost beheaded him. Bolvar’s blazing eyes fixed themselves on the air swirling away and just as he cut down another kvaldir he stamped his foot, burning ten of the rotting sea vrykul all at once. His blade sang again, slicing, burning, destroying whoever challenged him.
Though the mist greatly reduced visibility, the remains of the dead kvaldir were easily spotted. Seaweed and whatever had stuck to their bodies were no common sight this far inland. The air stirred behind his back and Bolvar stamped his foot again. Hrothgar brought down its spear on him and fire and steam enveloped him. Bolvar seized the weapon, pierced the Hrothgar’s chest, pinned him down, turned and threw it, impaling two, three, four other kvaldir.
Mal’ganis waited, his pale ears hearing all sorts of sounds coming from the white cloud. When the shouts, grunts and clanks finished, the mist stirred again and what had been a silhouette just a moment earlier proved to be the Lich King himself, striding out of the cloud, his sword gleaming.
A jormungar burst out of the ice and bellowed, acid dripping from its mouth. Bolvar studied its every movement: the quivering mandibles, the slithering muscular body, the almost imperceptible movements of the tail.
The beast spat a huge glob of acid and Bolvar rolled away. It spat again, melting both rock and ice. Bolvar leapt forward, dodged another glob, and as he got close enough the ice beneath him gave in and he found himself wrestling with the jaws of another jormungar, acid gurgling in its throat.
The jormungar’s jaws snapped shut as he let go before the fluid could be ejected and shrieked as Firemaw lodged itself in its head. Bolvar shifted his weight and the jormungar moved in the same direction, slamming against its kin and sheltering the Lich King from another greenish glob. As the jormungar fell lifeless and the other one attacked Bolvar threw himself and cut the beast from throat to belly, the wound glowing with fire.
He landed on the ice, his knees bent, and as he took a step forward the ice rattled. A gigantic jormungar appeared, much bigger than the ones he had slain.
And as it started moving Galakrond seized it and flew away, roaring after he had devoured it. The unbelievably strong winds died down after the Father of Dragons was gone. Bolvar and Mal’ganis stood opposite each other.
“History repeats itself,” the dreadlord broke the silence, his green eyes full of malice. “But you will fall, king, and you will serve the Burning Legion, just as you serve the shaman.”
“I serve no one.”
The demon laughed. “Ahh, blind, aren’t we? Do you not see that the only reason you’re here is because of him?” He glanced at the Helm of Domination. “Blind, indeed. He deceived the spirits, and so has he deceived you.”
“There must always be...a Lich King.” Bolvar dismissed the memory. “I’ve had enough of this.” He stepped forward, Firemaw shining red light on the ice and snow.
Mal’ganis opened his wings, making him look twice his size. “As have I, false king, as have I.” He flexed his fingers and darkness gathered about him.
A wave of dark and fel magic surged towards the Lich King. Bolvar gripped Firemaw with both of his hand and swung it, its tip cutting the ice and leaving a steaming fissure behind. A wall of fire blocked the dreadlord’s spell and dissipated a moment before Bolvar ran over the fractured ice and reached his foe.
He thrust, but all his weapon did was pass through a swarm of bats. They flew away from him and coalesced into Mal’ganis who cast a spell as he was once again whole. Bolvar went after him, dodging bolts of shadow and other foul incantations, and brought down his sword as his opponent was within range.
Mal’ganis flapped his wings and blew snow in his face. Firemaw followed him but then his body transformed into myriads of bats and returned to normal elsewhere. Bolvar pursued him, demonic magic always in his path, and as Mal’ganis relished the thought of fooling him a third time, he slowed down, sliding, lifted his blade and struck the ice behind him. Fire snaked towards the dreadlord’s new position with lightning speed. Mal’ganis grunted as he almost burnt alive, flicked his fingers and spikes of pure darkness almost impaled Bolvar. Thus the games began anew.
Just as the two moved the sky exploded. They raised their heads, countless green fireballs streaking downwards.
“It begins,” Mal’ganis said.
The meteorites hurtled into mountains, ice, snow, dirt, into Icecrown’s walls, towers, gates and into the very citadel. Bolvar heard a booming sound and saw part of the spire thundering down.
Icecrown is no more.
“My master has come.” The dreadlord smiled. “It is too late to save your people.”
Bolvar gritted his teeth, turned and rushed forward. After a mere step he came to a stop, a black blade embedded in his thigh.
Firemaw fell from his grasp, a blackness spreading from the wound. His fingers clawed the ice as he screamed in pain, the glow in his eyes dimmed by the second while everything around him became distorted and unclear, the crystal in the Helm of Domination flickered wildly, his ears heard much and nothing and whether the sounds came from within or without his head he couldn’t tell.
Mal’ganis conjured another black blade and approached him, speaking in demonic. Every time he muttered the same sentence the pain grew and the blackness spread faster.
FIGHT, Ner’zhul boomed. FIGHT IT, FORDRAGON. DO NOT...LET...
The shaman’s voice became ever more distant, his words unintelligible. His mind felt light-headed, numb, and he lost track of all the undead under his control. Black veins ran across his leg, sending jolts of pain whenever they advanced and quenching the fire within him.
“Bolvar, Bolvar, Bolvar, Bolvar.”
He hit the ice, every part of himself fuming.
“Bolvar, Bolvar, Bolvar, Bolvar.”
The voice echoed as he lifted his head.
“Bolvar, Bolvar, Bolvar, Bolvar.”
Bolvar Fordragon roared and everything around him ignited. Molten lines criss-crossed the frozen landscape and flames rose high into the sky. Mal’ganis, caught by surprise, flapped his wings and backed off. He peered into the fiery chaos inches from him, furious.
“Impossible!”
In the blink of an eye Bolvar burst out of the flames, his muscles tense, his veins thicker, his arm steaming. His fist struck the dreadlord’s jaw, the demon’s skin rippling, fracturing his canine, cracking bone, and sending him flying away from him. As Mal’ganis drew himself up Bolvar appeared again and the dreadlord spun around on the brink of shifting forms. Firemaw cut from wing to wing and soon after Mal’ganis cursed and grimaced as dark blood poured down his back.
Finish him.
Bolvar dashed forward. Mal’ganis scrambled to his feet and entered a portal, leaving a bloody trail in his wake.
Do not—
A raven cawed as he followed the dreadlord into another world. He found himself running across a grey wasteland, the sound of his footsteps muffled by soft dust, grey as well. Mal’ganis glanced back as he opened another portal. The chase continued on a land of fire and ash, rivers of lava everywhere Bolvar looked. He spun to avoid a jet of vapour, leapt over a chasm, and waved his hand. Mal’ganis shifted forms as rock split apart and flames poured out.
The next portal took him to a place far more unfamiliar, floating islands moving in random directions. He bounded off floating boulders, landed on an island, flung himself forward and dashed across a spinning flat surface and pursued the dreadlord through a swamp, queer creatures fleeing at the sight of them, their skin matching the environment. The murky water sizzled whenever Bolvar splashed into it, puffs of steam escaping skywards. Then he was in a white valley, thousands of frozen puddles and lakes around him. Then above his head was a black sky, rain pattering against decrepit structures. Then the sky became red and orange, a distant sun hovering near the horizon, huge stones and reddish grass as far as the eye could see.
Mal’ganis turned and grinned before disappearing in another portal that closed itself as Bolvar reached it and soon after the one that had been behind him also closed.
You fool! You’ve got us stranded who knows where!
Bolvar heard rumbling. Warily, he made his way down a slope, a stone wall to his left, and stepped into a vast plain.
“Hmm?”
Far into the distance a horned figure sat on a throne enclosed by cliffs, a broken sword beside him. The light of the sun didn’t reach him, but it mattered not, for the being bore a fiery mane that shone as bright as a bonfire and a black armour with molten runes that glowed softly. He shifted his burning eyes towards Bolvar and uttered words in a language that neither he nor Ner’zhul had ever heard. As he didn’t reply the being seized his weapon and rose, speaking in a different language that reminded Bolvar of the demons’ tongue.
“Hmm.” The hellish figure smiled. “Come to take revenge on me?”
Bolvar backed off as the demon-like being drew his head back, confused, and studied him, bobbing his head left and right and then looking in other directions.
Millions of blades of grass were whirled aloft as he beat his wings. “Hmm.” He faced the Lich King. “Azeroth, I take it?”
Both Bolvar and Ner’zhul sensed unimaginable power radiating from him.
“Did he take you here?” He sniffed the air. “No...no. A Nathrezim brought you here.” The land shuddered whenever he moved. “Why, I wonder? Hmm.”
Bolvar’s heartbeat quickened as he came closer.
“There is darkness in you.” Those burning eyes of his peered deep into his soul. “But there is also good.” He stroked his chin. “You are the eredar’s failed creation, aren’t you?”
Run.
“Do you know who I am, king of the dead?”
Run.
“Your silence is vexing. Speak at once!” he boomed, rocks tumbling down the nearby cliffs.
Run. Bolvar gripped Firemaw tightly.
The mountain-sized being slammed his foot and released a monstrous wave of fire, burning everything in its path. Bolvar stood his ground and the fire washed over him.
The broken sword burst into flames. “You dare defy me?”
As the being charged, Ner’zhul voice became deafening. Run, Fordragon! Run like you’ve never run before!
Bolvar broke into a sprint, the earth heaving and shaking. He vaulted over a boulder, the heat and rumbling increasing after every earthquake. Far away the broken sword sliced the land with explosive force. A fissure and a firestorm sped towards him, filling the sky with rocks and cinders. The destruction propelled him away, yet after he rolled across the ground and rose he realised that the titanic being was much closer than he expected.
There!
A portal hovered above the ground, dust swirling around it, the energy distorting the cold plains of Icecrown.
Fast, Fordragon, fast!
Bolvar almost lost his balance and the rock beneath his feet jerked upwards. He jumped, slid under an arch and as the rock plummeted he jumped again. The wind shifted as the broken sword rose into the air and arced back down. Bolvar rushed forward and leapt towards the portal. He spun around, held Firemaw before him, and the massive broken sword only scratched its blade as it swept past him. As the wind howled and blew snow against his body, the portal shrank, and Bolvar saw a burning eye fixed on him just before it closed.
You blithering idiot.


Mal’ganis staggered across the ice, black blood dripping from his wounds. He attempted to control Bolvar’s forces but something prevented him from doing so, something or someone had sealed off their minds. Galakrond roared above the citadel, wreaking havoc on everything that moved, enemy and friend alike. Then the dreadlord gaped as he looked backwards and Firemaw pierced his chest.
Mal’ganis fell on his back, Bolvar above him. He spat out blood and cursed. “I...will...return.”
“Not this time.”
Bolvar twisted Firemaw and a torrent of fire erupted from beneath them. The flames did nothing to him, though the same could not be said about the dreadlord. He screamed as his skin peeled off and turned into ash, as his whole body was burning away.
“NER’ZHULLLLLLL.”
The Lich King’s lips curled into a smile. Mal’ganis was no more.
But he had no time to feel relieved. All of the undead had fallen under his control, all but one.
“Galakrond!”
The great dragon roared as he fought against Bolvar’s will. He slammed into the citadel, damaging it even further, and took off, breathing fire in random directions. He turned and flew towards the Dragonblight, then turned again, shaking his head. Growling, he came hurtling towards Bolvar, and crashed into the ice, thrashing wildly. Bolvar approached him and Galakrond roared, a gust of warm air flowing out of his mouth. He roared again and shook his head repeatedly until Bolvar placed his palm on his skull and silence fell. The battle had come to an end.
But the war had not.
He inhaled deeply and exhaled a long white stream. Then he marched towards the citadel, fire, ice, steam and bodies anywhere he looked. His army, bolstered by Mal’ganis’ forces, did not budge as he strode through the ranks.
“Highlord Fordragon,” Arno joined him, his face covered in soot. “I’m glad to see you again. That dragon almost burnt my arse.”
Anarak came soon after, one of his limbs dangling in the wind. “Victory, sire.” The three gazed at the rest of Icecrown from atop the steps in front of the door to the citadel. “What are your orders?”
You defeated the dreadlord, assimilated his forces, survived the Lord of the Burning Legion himself and raised the infamous Galakrond, but our work is not finished yet. Rally the Scourge, and set sail for the Eastern Kingdoms.
The undead began gathering in the courtyard, Arno and Anarak overseeing the whole operation, but Bolvar’s mind was somewhere else.
“Is it true then?”
Speak plainly.
“You deceived the spirits.”
Come on now, Fordragon. Did you honestly believe that Terenas spoke the truth?
The world melted away and suddenly Bolvar and Ner’zhul stood opposite each other on the platform around the Frozen Throne. The shaman looked like the orc he used to be.
Bolvar ran towards him. “You deceiving bastard,” he said in his old voice.
The orc tumbled backwards.
“You fooled them!” Bolvar punched him. “You fooled me!” He punched him again.
“Ahh, mortals.” Ner’zhul smiled. “Always blaming others for their mistakes.”
Bolvar struck him. “I will kill you!”
“Forgetting something? I am forever bound to the Helm of Domination.” His laughter echoed loudly.
“You damned us all!”
Ner’zhul grunted and flung him away. “You, Fordragon, damned yourself when you laid siege to the Wrathgate, do not forget that. It is not I that should be the focus of your anger. The dragon woman did this to you, but perhaps,” Ner’zhul continued after rising from the icy floor, “you should be grateful. Arthas would have turned you into his puppet.”
Bolvar glared at him.
“Look.” Ner’zhul waved his hand and before the Frozen Throne a vision manifested. Black magic swirled around Arthas’ hand as he raised Bolvar into a death knight.
“No!”
Then what really happened coalesced before them. The battle at the Wrathgate, the flames of Alexstrasza, the first time Bolvar opened his eyes after he had died.
“It was you who chose to don the Helm of Domination.” Bolvar saw Frostmourne shattering and the Helm fall. “It was you who spared the paladin from this fate.” The moment Tirion lifted the helm replayed itself. “Tirion!” “The only one who deserves blame, my dear Fordragon, is you.”
Bolvar charged and raised his fist. He thrust but a chain forced him to stay put. He was held high above the Frozen Throne where Arthas sat, awaiting the armies of the Alliance and the Horde. “I will break you.” A second later he found himself back on the platform.
“You are choosing to oppose me. I could take your place. You could be the old Bolvar Fordragon that you always dream of.”
A wave of his hand and Bolvar had flesh again. He had the same clothes he usually had worn in Stormwind’s court. “Come, Lord Fordragon,” Lady Prestor said as she extended her hand, “the king awaits.”
“Why?” Bolvar asked and the images disappeared. “Why are you doing this?”
“Fordragon, Fordragon, Fordragon. Do I have to repeat myself every time?” He closed his hand.
The sky burst into flames. Dozens of green boulders rained down. Armies of demons marched past Bolvar, the land around them scorched and lifeless. Cities crumbled to pieces at the hands of the Eredar, forests withered and burnt, skies darkened and seas blackened. Then the scene changed. An orc stood before a red eredar, but before Bolvar could get a clear view he was ushered back to the Frozen Throne.
Ner’zhul no longer smiled as he began walking in a circle. “Everything I have done,” he said and Frostmourne hovered before Arthas, “everything I have ever done,” he carried on and Bolvar saw Arthas slaying his father, the rise of the undead, the moment the Prince of Lordaeron donned the Helm of Domination, “was to thwart the Burning Legion’s plans.” Bolvar took a step back as he witnessed the chaos and fear that Arthas as the Lich King had unleashed. “The prince was promising.” Arthas appeared grinning. “But he was stubborn, proud, arrogant...and doubtful. I was forced to lie low and wait for his inevitable fall.” The siege of Icecrown, the final fight, the spirits rebelling against Arthas, the last moment he shared with his father. “No king rules forever, my son.”
“The living quarrel too much.” Ner’zhul stared at Bolvar, still walking in a circle. “They wage war against each other for futile reasons, they see evil where there is none, they proclaim themselves pure and good when they are far from that.”
Bolvar, strangely, found himself agreeing.
“That is why I tricked the spirits,” he said and first Uther appeared in what looked like a hall somewhere in the citadel, then Terenas, his voice loud and earnest. “There must always be...a Lich King.”
“You will never surrender, and neither will I. We are in this together, Fordragon, and we have to make do with what we have and what we are, though we may not like it.”
Bolvar’s body was once again warped by the dragons’ flames. “You’ve slaughtered countless lives.”
Ner'zhul came to a stop. “The sacrifices that were made and, yes, the mistakes that I made, Fordragon, were for naught but the safety of my people.” As the words sank in the dream-like reality began falling apart. “We’ve been here long enough,” he said and vanished in a puff of smoke. “Choose wisely.”
Bolvar stood silent, the army gathered before him.
“Sire?”


---


Notes:

- I hope you like the pacing in this chapter. It seemed perfect while I was writing it but I felt a little less certain about it while I was editing it (I gave it a quick read so maybe that's why)

- I also hope you like the cameo of a, let's say, fairly important character in the Warcraft universe.

- I hope (I say "I hope" too often) that there's not too much repetition. I dislike repetition.

- I don't know when I'll post the next chapter (IX), as I am working on my second novella (which should be published very, very soon) and life in general is keeping me busy.

- If you spot any mistake or inconsistency let me know.

---

IX
War Begins

“At long last.”
An eagle screeched as it soared above the green uplands, a pair of demonic eyes watching its elegant movements.
“Everything is ready, as you ordered, Great One.”
The eredar turned, his red skin and hellish wings standing out against the blue sky. “The illusion spell has been successful, I presume.”
“Of course, Lord Kil’jaeden.” The dreadlord bowed. “No one has sensed our presence.”
“But they will now.” Kil’jaeden flashed a smile. “Have your inquiries been fruitful?”
“Yes...yes. Both factions are substantially weaker, though they are still well capable of resisting us. The Scourge is but a fraction of what it once was. It will not stand against you, my lord, as Mal’ganis has already told you. The Forsaken on the other hand...”
Kil’jaeden glared. “The elven queen has reigned long enough. Her city will be the first to fall.”
“As you command, my lord.”
“What about Kalimdor?”
“Gorgonnash and the satyr are both eager to slay the Legion’s enemies. The pitlord has amassed an imposing army, while Xavius has garnered...precious information.”
His piercing eyes shifted towards the dreadlord.
“The Betrayer has returned.”
The news pleased him. “Stormrage. I’ll make sure he pays for what he’s done.”
“What shall we do about the naga queen, my lord? Her servants and the gods she serve may—”
“Do not be fooled by what you see. She will not thwart our plans.” He strode forward, his hooves burning anything they stepped on.
“What are your orders, my lord?” The dreadlord asked as his master stopped and stared at a massive crater in the distance.
“I will not repeat Archimonde’s mistake. Burn, slay, destroy everything and everyone you see. Then and only then shall we claim the ancient powers of this world.”
“As you command, my lord.” The dreadlord went his way.
“Do not think I’ve forgotten about the failures of your kin, Mephistroth. I will not be as forgiving as in the past. Pray that you and Mal’ganis are successful.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Undo the illusion spell. It is time.” And with that said Mephistroth left while Kil’jaeden breathed deeply. “This world has defied us for far too long.” He extended his hands and concentric rings formed around him. He muttered a spell in the demons’ language and runes formed in the dirt and grass. Then he opened his hand and a green flame slowly enveloped his hand. As it crackled he slapped the ground and the concentric circles became alive, their runes glowed brightly, and the sky exploded. At the same time the dreadlord dispelled the illusion spell and an endless demonic army began marching across the scorched uplands.
“The invasion begins.”


---


Notes:

- The chapter is short and is only meant to give you a glimpse of what's happening outside Northrend and who is leading the Legion's armies on Azeroth.

- It takes place a few moments before both Mal'ganis and Bolvar see the infernals raining down.

- I wanted it to give off a Warcraft III vibe.

- It's obvious that this is different from the online game's storyline (WoD events have been altered and while I may draw inspiration from the new expansion, the plot of this work of fanfiction will be very different).

---

X
The Gathering Storm

Take a good look at Icecrown, Fordragon, for this may be the last time you see it.
Bolvar gazed upwards, the tip of the citadel even visible from afar. The raven flew past him, cawing, and headed southwards, a river of moving corpses below it.
Arno stood still as a statue, his eyes fixed on the dragons’ temple. As Bolvar marched on he began moving again, the snow crunching under his feet. A snowstorm briefly engulfed them as Galakrond went ahead of them. The hours went by, the countless burning eyes in stark contrast to the arctic surroundings.
It was then that Bolvar saw a figure that appeared and disappeared repeatedly as a frigid wind blew about them. He stepped away from the army and out of sight, the figure keeping its distance, a pair of horns and wings visible even from afar. A second of gust of wind blinded him and soon after he saw tattoos glowing a demonic green just like the figure’s eyes and whatever weapons it wielded.
“Back from the dead, aren’t we?”
Arthas’ fading memories mingled with his. “I could say the same thing about you.”
“Indeed,” Illidan replied, expressionless. “Death is illuminating, isn’t it?”
Bolvar now understood. “You slew the undead in the south-west.”
“I bear no love for the Burning Legion.” He flapped his wings as he faced him. “Consider it a gift, though I now see you didn’t need any help at all.”
Look alive.
“Reassure the spirit that I have no intention of fighting you. Arthas and I had unfinished business, as you may know. Unfortunately I was...delayed.” The green eyes studied him. “As much as fighting the Lich King tempts me, I have other matters to attend to in Kalimdor.” His eyes then fell on Firemaw before shifting back to him. “Interesting...you reek of death...and life.”
Another demonic fireball streaked across the skies of Northrend.
“You may be wondering why I came here,” Illidan said whilst casually swinging his warglaives. “Or perhaps you may have already guessed.”
Snowflakes sizzled as they touched him. “You want my help.”
“An alliance, yes. We both share the same enemy, it would not be wise to have our forces clash, if they were to meet.”
Trust should not be given away easily, Fordragon. They call him the Betrayer for a reason.
Bolvar nodded.
“Then we have a deal, but be wary, the Lich King was feared more than anything else in the past. No one will stand beside you, no matter how good your intentions are. When people think you’re a monster, you will always be a monster to them, even if you save their lives. I know that very well.” He turned away. “On the day of the final battle, look up.”
“Who are you fighting for?” Bolvar asked.
Illidan stopped and glanced backwards. “For the only person that I’ve ever truly cared about.” A gust of wind and the demonic night elf was no longer there.
Bolvar rejoined his army and resumed marching towards the coast, trudging across the snow-covered land littered with ruins and bones. The smell of briny air coincided with the first glimpse of the sea. As the coast filled up with the undead a group of cultists approached him.
“The Cult of the Damned greets you, my king.” They all knelt.
He took a good look at the ships rocking back and forth, most of them old and battered. Darkness fell for an instant as Galakrond blot out the sun. “Are the ships ready?”
“Almost, my king.” One spoke. “We also received other ships from a group of naga. They claimed to serve Illidan Stormrage.”
“Very well.” Bolvar strode past them, a different sort of warmth radiating from Firemaw. He heard steel rubbing against coarse leather. He spun around just as a cultist attempted to thrust and seized his hand. He twisted it and then grabbed his neck. “What is the meaning of this?”
The cultist struggled to free himself and singed his hands when he tried to push Bolvar’s fingers away.
Bolvar peered into his eyes. “Sylvanas.” He tossed the cultist away and extended his arm. Warm air enveloped the human and then Bolvar pulled his hand back, dragging out of the cultist’s body the banshee that had possessed him. The banshee shrieked as he delved into her mind, fiery chains keeping her locked in place. He saw countless images of the queen of the Forsaken, witnessed all the conversations she and the banshee had had and experienced bits and pieces of the spirit’s past life.
“Find them, deceive them, and report everything you learn.”
“The lich is far more dangerous than you can possibly imagine.”
“We must find the fragments before they do.”
“The Lich King must never leave Northrend.”
“Follow them, and slay him.”
“As you say, my Queen.”
“If you fail, you know very well what he’ll do to you.”
“Kaleena! Wait for me!”
“Go call your father.”
“You’re a grown woman now.”
“Time flies.”
“They’ve breached the gates!”
“RUN.”
He let her go and gave her peace, her spectral form burning away.
“Take him away,” Arno said after he had witnessed the whole scene. “The heck was that?”
“One of Sylvanas’ banshees.” Another infernal lit up the sky. “Begin boarding the ships.”
“As the Lich King commands.” Anarak bowed.
Bolvar saw the flags of the alliance and the horde being pulled down and then replaced by the Scourge’s new flag: hammers, arrows and skulls aflame on a black background while in the middle was Firemaw surrounded by a warm glow.
At last they set sail, a great silence pervading both land and sea. His gaze lingered on the forlorn coasts of Northrend until the continent became nothing but a small dot on the horizon.


The throne quivered as a fist slammed against the ice, a crack distorting the pale face of an elf, her crimson red eyes narrowed.
“Where will we make landfall?” A voice brought him back to the present.
The ship creaked loudly as it cut through the waves, the water beneath them dark and bitterly cold. “We’ll see.”
He focused, feeling various presences scattered across the north of the Eastern Kingdoms, all of them vague and indistinct. His reach was increasing, he realised. Much to his dislike, he was growing more and more accustomed to the powers of the Lich King.
“Fog ahead!”
As the cultist spoke, Bolvar commanded Galakrond to get rid of the nuisance. The great dragon flew at great speed and beat his wings, but the fog only stirred.
“It’s not a rare sight in these waters,” Arno said, “though that beast should’ve shoved it away with ease.”
Magical in nature, perhaps.
“Keep watch.”
Arno nodded. “As you say.” He cupped his hand. “Maintain course and stay alert!”
Feet thudded on the deck. “The smell is...unnatural,” Anarak said. “Be wary, my king.”
Galakrond circled above them, never too far from Lich King. He vanished as Bolvar’s ship was the first to enter the fog. His crew lost sight of the sky, the other ships and the sea itself, the waves splashing against the hull the only reassuring sound.
“Straight ahead!” Arno shouted, his voice growing distant. “Do not change course!”
Whoosh. Bolvar blinked twice. Arno and Anarak were no longer beside him. The cultists and the other undead had all disappeared.
Whoosh. He studied the fog, his eyes darting left and right as he caught glimpses of movement.
Laughter came. A woman, he thought. He spun around and heard laughter again. Whoosh. He faced the prow and looked straight ahead.
A dark patch hovered above the barely visible prow and then something emerged, dozens of tentacles caressing the deck. A strange creature bearing multiple limbs and a snake-like body slithered towards him, its hair moving as if it had a mind of its own.
“You’re more handsome than I expected.”
Naga. Both he and Ner’zhul agreed.
A puff of smoke and she was gone. Whoosh.
“Very handsome,” the naga’s fingers slid across his right arm.
Bolvar swung his arm, smoke the only thing he hit. She laughed.
“Do not fear.” She reappeared behind him, her six hands touching his molten skin. “I only wish to talk.”
Firemaw sliced her in half.
“You and I are very similar, you see.” Her voice came from the fog. “I wasn’t always like this. Oh, yes. I was...beautiful.” Smoke swirled towards the ship’s gunwale. “‘Azshara.’” A night elf stepped onto the ship, silver hair cascading down her back. “‘Azshara,’ they said, ‘the fairest of them all.’” She became smoke and surged towards one side of the deck. “‘Azshara,’ they always said, ‘Flower of Life, Flower of the Moon, Glory of our People, let me earn your favour.’” She transformed into smoke. “You would’ve fallen for me too,” she said as soon as she coalesced, leaning against the gunwale, resting her chin on her hand, her side-slit dress revealing much of her deep violet skin. She smirked.
Bolvar could see the mischief in her eyes. “I’d never fall for the likes of you.”
Whoosh. “Liar,” she whispered tenderly in his ear. “Deep down you are still a man.” She appeared hovering in front of him, her arms wrapped around his neck. “And all men have their cravings.” She flicked the jewel embedded in his helm and shifted forms, laughing loudly. She stood with her back against the mast, her bare leg bent. “Where was I? Oh, yes.” She spun around the mast. “This journey of yours,” she said as she suddenly was beside him. “Do you not see how futile it is?” Every time she spoke Bolvar found her in a different spot. “Once you reach land all you will do is march towards your doom. But what if you win? What if you defeat Kil’jaeden? What will you do then?” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Demons are the least of your concerns.” She paused as she coalesced elsewhere. “There are other things beneath your very feet, fiends that lurk in the darkness that not even the titans in the days of old were able to expunge completely.”
“The Old Gods.”
“Yes.” One moment he felt her breath, the next she was slinking across the deck. “I have witnessed first-hand what they can do, and I am living proof of what they’re capable of. If the Burning Legion is defeated they will do everything in their power to enslave us, to turn us into their mindless servants...and I, Azshara, serve no one.” Smoke swirled around him. “One evil will fall, another one will take its place and the cycle will begin anew.”
“What are you proposing?”
“Let them clash,” she said close to him, “let the demons and the old ones annihilate each other until nothing remains of them both. Only then will this world be truly peaceful and rid of all imperfections.”
“You want the death of millions of people.”
She lifted her hands. “All great things require sacrifice.” The fog rippled. “Think about it, from the ashes a perfect world will rise. You could have peace you long for...and so much more.” She nibbled his charred ear. “You could have me,” she whispered.
Bolvar shook her off. Laughter reverberated around him as smoke surged away from him. “I warn you though, my heart already belongs to someone.” She placed a hand on her chest before briefly appearing behind him again. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun.” And with that said she sat on the gunwale. “I suggest you take care of your cultists now, for I had to play with their minds as a diversion. But I see you’re already doing that, hmm? Even under this spell you can still control those walking corpses of yours.” She bit her lower lip whilst smiling. “Send my regards to Stormrage, if you do stumble across him again, and if you ever feel lonely”—her breath washed over his neck—“you know where to find me.”
She laughed and soon after Bolvar found himself standing on a real ship, the fog dissipating. He saw Arno and other undead keeping some of the cultists pinned down who either thrashed, screamed or shouted.
“Will you all stop shouting!” Arno said. “There is no bloody kraken!”


Many days had passed since his exchange with the queen of the naga.
Bolvar kept scouring the Eastern Kingdoms for remnants of the Scourge. Clusters of undead still roamed the land, some mindlessly, some heeding the wills of others. No more, Bolvar thought and those he chose fell under his control. One undead made himself plainly visible, one that the old Bolvar Fordragon would’ve slain on the spot.
My king, Kel’thuzad said telepathically. We have been awaiting your return.
The lich was on the move, he realised. Where?
Where it all began.
They sailed on, through a storm that almost wrecked the ships and then once again across calm waters, under the ever-present hues of demonic fire dancing in the sky. Finally, the coast came into view.
“Is that...?”
“Lordaeron.”
Debris banged against Bolvar’s ship as it neared the coast. Galakrond roared and on the beach the old flag of the Scourge was risen. As each ship was laid ashore Kel’thuzad’s cultists put out gangplanks and the undead came pouring out.
“Bolvar Fordragon.” Kel’thuzad bowed. “The helm suits you.”
Stay your hand, Bolvar told Arno who watched from the ship. “Kel’thuzad.”
“The one and only.” The lich lifted his bony hands. “The Cult of the Damned is at your service, my liege. I see you’ve put the blade to good use.”
He squeezed Firemaw. “How did you know?”
“It is my duty to know, and my knowledge is at your disposal, my king.”
As the lich’s glowing eyes stared blankly at him a fireball pierced a cloud. Bolvar couldn’t help but notice the nearby waves ebbing and flowing over the remains of an infernal. “What’s the situation?”
“Ahh, yes, of course, if you would follow me.” The way was cleared for the two of them. “There have been...interesting developments.”
Bolvar strode forward, the sky darkening the farther he went.
“A great demonic army has found its way into this world. It is wreaking havoc wherever it goes, but unlike the Third War, their objective appears to be different.”
“Hmm?”
“Power is not what they seek,” the lich replied as they left the beach behind them and ascended a grassy slope. “I believe they plan on ridding this world of anyone who opposes them, as they have already demonstrated.”
A dying leaf fell into his left palm, the smell of burnt matter wafting past him. He rubbed it gently and the leaf sprang back to life. As he discarded it his eyes went back to the lich.
“I must say Kil’jaeden’s proficiency in magic is...unseen. His incantations are truly fascinating.”
They were almost at the top of the slope. Bolvar could sense other undead scattered all over the land. “What happened here? What about Sylvanas?”
Kel’thuzad laughed. “She’s possibly watching us this very moment, stalking us from the shadows. The recent events have made her rather careless. As for her people, I’m afraid they’ll need a new shepherd.”
Dozens of pillars of smoke rose high into the air. “What do you mean?” Bolvar said, but what he saw next answered his question.
“The Undercity is no more.”
Though they were far away, Bolvar could see the ruins of Lordaeron fuming, thick black smoke escaping through every exit, including the sewers. Flames still devoured the land around it and many of the villages that had survived the Scourge long ago were now nothing but ash.
“A familiar sight, isn’t it?” Kel’thuzad cherished the memories.
Bolvar shot him a glance. “Don’t compare me to Arthas.”
“But he was such a peculiar character. Ambitious, headstrong, brave.”
“Foolish.”
“Bravery and foolishness are two sides of the same coin, are they not? Unfortunately his humanity held him back at the pinnacle of his reign. A true shame.”
He snorted. “Doubtful. He had cast aside his humanity.”
“A man only truly casts aside his humanity when he dies.” He paused and began hovering forwards. “Arthas never died.”



---


Notes:

- If you spot any mistake or inconsistency let me know.

- The formatting is much better on DeviantART.

- I hope the chapter isn't too short and that the events don't seem to go by too quickly.

---

XI
Trollbane

Arator ran through the encampment, the sky growing darker by the minute.
Nobody paid him attention, not even those he bumped into. All eyes were on the clouds that every now and then glowed a sickly green. A peal of thunder sent a shiver down his spine. He almost tripped as he neared a wooden house, small and weathered, and all his thoughts went back to his parents.
“Lord Trollbane!” The door flung open. “There are reports of infernals falling everywhere,” Arator said, his voice filled with concern.
As the door closed behind the half-elf, Danath Trollbane looked at him but said nothing. He put the quill away and folded his hands. “What about Stormwind?”
“All we know is that Wrynn is amassing an army, nothing more.”
“The Horde?”
“We don’t know.”
Danath sighed, staring into space.
Arator stepped closer. “Is...is it happening again?”
Danath glanced at him and remained silent. His eyes went to the sword hanging on the wall, a ragged banner behind it. “We can't hide any longer.”
“What then?”
He stroked his white beard. “It is time.” The chair scuffed across the floor as he stood up.
Arator watched him stride past him. “Time for what?”
Danath headed outside, people whose gaze had been fixed on the green fireballs suddenly turning to look at him, as if they too understood what he had in mind. “For Stromgarde to rise again.”


---


Notes:

- The chapter is short and is only meant to show you what Danath is up to.

- I hope these short chapters don't bother you, I just feel they give a bit more depth to the story.

- As you've already seen, the story here will be very different from the online game.

- This is also on fanfiction.net and DeviantART.

---

XII
She Who Walks the Day

She stared at the elven runeblade resting on a stand, the power it gave off palpable, its beauty enthralling, highlighted by the glowing flame within her palm.
Her lips twisted into a grin as she suddenly closed her hand into a fist, her green eyes burning with firm resolve. She left her home and set off towards what lay beyond the thousands of trees with golden, orange and red leaves: the glorious Silvermoon City.
The tranquillity pervading the Eversong Woods was shattered by whatever was tearing through the sky, rays of green light filtering through the canopy overhead. She marched on, her stride steady and sure-footed, the other elves in the area too concerned with what was coming to notice that none of that was fazing her.
Even the memories of the past didn’t alter her demeanour. She remembered very well the day Silvermoon had fallen yet nothing would change her mind now, no matter how many times her mind replayed the chaos, the fear and the hopelessness she had felt whilst fleeing the undead and watching her home crumble to pieces.
Doubt never crossed her mind as she reached the gates of Silvermoon, elves from all walks of life flocking inside, guards wielding double-bladed swords and crimson-coloured shields lined up on either side of the bridge that led into the city.
Some of the citizens of Silvermoon glanced at her, wondering who the hooded elf was and how she could walk so calmly in such dire times, oblivious of what was truly hanging at her side. Perhaps the few who actually caught a glimpse of her face recognised her, she thought, perhaps it reminded them of their deceased prince or at least his bloodline.
It mattered not though. Soon they would know her real identity, soon the whole world would witness the return of their rightful ruler, soon Quel’Thalas would become again the beacon of hope and prosperity it had once been.
A pair of swords blocked the carpeted path to the royal palace, their faces expressionless.
“Let me pass.”
“Lord Lor’themar Theron cannot be disturbed at this time,” one of the guards replied coldly. “You shall not pass.”
“Whatever he’s discussing with his advisors and those petty lords is nothing of importance. I must pass.”
“You shall not pass.”
The other guard spoke. “Once the meeting is over the Regent Lord may grant you an audience, but until then you may not pass.”
Her eyes were set on the Sunfury Spire. “Tell him that he ought to step down from his throne.”
“And who are you, may I ask?”
“Your queen.”

“Are you going to make us look like fools with that vile tongue of yours, Rommath?”
Rommath glanced at Aethas. “I have no need for this vile tongue of mine, as you already make a fool out of yourself.” He smiled.
“Enough,” Lor’themar said, his back resting against his cobalt throne.
“You need to act!” an elven lord said. “Every second that we waste here could bring the enemy one step closer to us! The Sunwell is in danger, our people are in danger, and we don’t have the strength to resist a full-scale assault!”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Halduron Brightwing said.
The lord faced Lor’themar. “We cannot allow history to repeat itself! You are the king of Quel'thalas, you must do what is best for your people.”
“Regent,” Lor’themar corrected him. “Anasterian was the last true king.”
“Kael’thas was the last king,” Rommath said, “though he refused to call himself such.”
Lor’themar noticed that the other lords were clearing the way. “I guarantee you, my lord, that I will do everything in my power to protect our kingdom.”
“If the Sunstriders were h—”
His fingers twitched. “I am no Sunstrider, my lord. Do keep that in mind for the future.”
“Then perhaps a Sunstrider is what you need.”
The lord turned just as the elven mage removed her hood. Taken aback, he stepped away.
“What is this?” Halduron rose from his chair. “Who let her in?” he said while Lor’themar, Rommath, Aethas and Lady Liadrin studied the interloper.
“Who are you?” Lor’themar asked calmly.
She saw the look in Aethas’ face as he recognised her and then fixed her eyes on the Regent Lord. “I am Lyandra Sunstrider,” she boomed, “and I’ve come here to take what is rightfully mine.”
The elven lord that had been speaking a moment ago recoiled in disgust. “Preposterous! You have no claim, no birthright!”
“This is my birthright!”
Felo’melorn appeared before them, its blade glimmering in the low light. Amidst the gasps of the elven lords, Rommath couldn’t help but grin.


---


Notes (if you don't know what happens in WoW: Legion, perhaps it is best you refrain from reading these notes):

- I'm not very fond of the direction the lore is taking but I do like a few elements and characters (Lyandra Sunstrider, for example, though what they did to her is a waste of a character) so I thought of adding them to this work of fanfiction, changing them as I see fit.

- Lyandra's fate in the game is, as stated above, a wasted opportunity (apart from the fact that I greatly dislike how they're treating Bolvar). Instead of having her die at the hands of the Lich King after trying to recover Felo'melorn I decided to keep her alive.

- Lor'themar granted the elven lords an audience because they were becoming restless (I thought I'd clarify that they're not part of the council, as in the past when Quel'thalas was ruled by the Convocation of Silvermoon).

- Sunstrider is a Darnassian term that means "he who walks the day" (taken from WoWpedia).

- The next chapter will be from Bolvar's point of view again. This chapter and the one before it are only meant to give you an idea of what's going on in the Eastern Kingdoms.

---

XIII
Echoes

Bolvar and Kel’thuzad were marching towards the ruins of Lordaeron.
“What have you achieved in my absence?” Bolvar asked, even though he could read the lich’s mind.
Kel’thuzad was delighted to answer. “Expanding my knowledge, of course. The Book of Medivh has proved more enlightening than I had previously thought. It is beyond mortal understanding.”
“The Cult?”
The charred landscape drew closer. “Fulfilling its purpose, as expected. Our forces feed on conflict, as you already know, my king, thus the more the living battle each other, the better we will fare.” He paused. “The seeds have been planted, sire. Only time will tell.”
Firemaw was seething.
He and his cult are invaluable to us. Do not let your mortal desires get the best of you.
The dark grass gave way to scorched earth, an endless desolation that reminded Bolvar of the frozen wastes of Northrend. Burnt corpses welcomed them as they strode through a village, the remains of an infernal lying beside a crumbling wall.
Another demonic construct crashed into what had once been a tavern and charged towards them, the ground shaking. Kel’thuzad flicked his fingers and the infernal perished in an instant, its body frozen cold.
“She’s following us.”
“I know.”
“Shall I put an end to her?”
“Let her be, she poses no threat to us.”
Kel’thuzad nodded. “As you say, my king.”
Bolvar watched the land through Galakrond’s eyes and saw how far the demons’ corruption had spread. “They’re heading south.”
“To the Arathi Highlands, yes.” They stumbled across a hole where an explosion had taken place, bones scattered in all directions. “It is there that the living will make their stand.”
“What about Gilneas? It reeks of fel magic.”
Kel’thuzad rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the ground freezing beneath him. “It ought to be deserted, but perhaps the Legion claimed it during its march. It could be worth investigating, but you must make haste, my king, for every second that passes the death toll rises and the end of this world draws closer.”
They pressed on in silence. There was no grass, no wildlife, not one thing that could be deemed alive, only fire and death. As ash began to fall Bolvar saw a town looming in the distance, flashes in the sky highlighting a barely standing clock tower. He sped up his pace, striding past fires, ruins and the corpses of those who had not fled the city in time. Bolvar came to a stop right in front of the Ruins of Lordaeron, a sickly wind blowing against him.
“Return to the army and start marching. More troops will soon be joining our ranks.”
Kel’thuzad bowed. “As the Lich King commands. What will you do instead, my king?”
“I’ll go inside by myself. I sense...a presence.”
Kel’thuzad took his leave without uttering a word. Bolvar shifted his gaze to the city and headed inside. A large arched entrance towered over him as he entered, the stone battered and weathered. The city itself had been massive before its fall but now its grandeur, its beauty and its glorious history were just a mere memory. All that could remind the world of what Lordaeron had once been was its palace, visible from anywhere in the ruins, the dim light concealing whatever cracks or holes it bore.
Bolvar spotted the derelict houses, stables, taverns and other buildings, including a church. There were countless fires here as well, and countless bones. He suddenly turned, an eerie silence pervading his surroundings.
“Light save us.”
Ten ghostly humans rushed to the palace.
“HEL—”
A sword pierced a man and then a woman screamed as her body was being torn apart.
“We must warn the king!”
A father waved his wife and his children away. “Take them out of the city! Go! I’ll join you later!”
As Bolvar continued walking more screams filled the air.
“The prince has gone mad!”
“King Terenas is dead!”
“Mommy!”
Two more spirits appeared, almost identical in appearance. “You can’t slow down now! Come on!”
“Where’s Father?”
“I don’t know, jus—”
One fell to the ground, lifeless.
“Hegon? HEG—”
The other brother met the same fate. Bolvar stood watching as the past unfolded before him, echoes of the fate that befell the citizens of Lordaeron.
The spirits are restless, Ner’zhul said.
Dozens of more spirits relived the final moments of their lives and yet soon after Bolvar saw events that had occurred not long ago, deaths at the hands of an unseen threat. He saw undead men and women clad in clothes running left and right.
These are Sylvanas’ people.
One steamed and moaned, his eyes slowly starting to glow like coals as he fell to his knees. He swung wildly at thin air and rose. He fell a second time and roared, his body igniting.
And he exploded, destroying other undead close to him. One spirit who had been spared from the explosion found herself steaming and moaning soon after. She burst into flames and spread her affliction to those around her.
Bolvar had paid the spirits so much attention that he hadn’t realised he had already reached the palace. He saw Arthas striding towards the throne room, thousands of petals raining over him, people clapping, cheering and hollering. He huffed and squeezed Firemaw. Then he took a deep breath, relaxed his grip and walked forwards.
Unlike Arthas, Bolvar had no need to push doors to enter. He stepped onto the marble floor, the seal of Lordaeron in the middle of it all and, at the far end of the room, sat the throne.
“What are you doing, my son?”
“Succeeding you...Father.”
A peal of thunder and light beamed through the hole in the ceiling and into the room. A ghostly hue enveloped his surroundings and all that was missing reappeared, all that was broken was whole again.
“My line had always ruled with wisdom and strength, yet here I am, the last king of Lordaeron, a lingering ghost, perchance to repent, perchance to mourn, perchance to heal.”
Bolvar stared at King Terenas II sitting on the throne, one of the spikes on his crown missing. “King Terenas.”
“It is good to see you again, Highlord Fordragon, though we meet in dire times, as in the past.”
“Was it you who I sensed?”
“Aye, Highlord Fordragon, aye.” Terenas sighed. “It was only after the helm had been placed on your head that I had realised the severity of my mistake. We were all deceived, Highlord Fordragon, and most of all, I was deceived. If it hadn’t been for me, perhaps you would not have to bear this curse.” He paused and glanced at the helm with contempt. “You have my apologies, Highlord Fordragon. Unfortunately a dead man’s apology won’t change your fate.”
“Why are you here?”
“There is still hope for this world, for this land, for this forgotten kingdom, for my bloodline.
“My son didn’t heed my counsel and I wasn’t wise enough to heed the prophet’s counsel, yet I have learnt, Highlord Fordragon, and now I wish to do my part in this conflict, for it was also my ignorance and arrogance that had a hand in dooming us all. You must persist in your quest, Highlord Fordragon, for you are the only one who can turn the tide of war in our favour.”
Bolvar remembered the vision.
“I only have one request,” Terenas continued. “The taint of foul magic has seeped deep into the foundations of this city. Cleanse it, Highlord Fodragon, and put the tormented spirits to rest, so that new life can be breathed into these ruins.”
Bolvar nodded.
“Head below into the defiled crypts of my ancestors. It is there that you must purify the corruption.”
And thus Bolvar made his way into the Undercity, the various corridors, rooms and passages somehow familiar. Here there were the signs of both past and recent catastrophes and here the spirits wandered, longing for peace, showing him their final moments. Across a corridor he went, its walls covered in soot, dozens of spirits fleeing in despair. Then he saw two undead exploding and as their forms faded away he caught glimpse of two bony hands interlocked. The farther down he went, the thicker and fouler the air grew. Pools and rivers of green fluid were scattered around the Undercity, bubbling and glowing.
“They’re in the crypts!”
“Head for the sewers!”
A clash of swords. “Lordaeron will not fall!”
Then a guard perished and soon after his body kicked and jerked as he was raised into undeath.
“Faster! Faster!”
“It’s all lost.”
Bolvar crossed a bridge, strode through an arched doorway and as he stood in the middle of a large crypt, the stone beneath him flat and rough-hewn. He looked at the vaulted ceiling and at the tombs of the forgotten kings of Lordaeron, their plaques barely readable, behind which their respective statues could be found in arched niches, watching him in quiet contemplation.
Bolvar stared at his sword, at its runes, at the fiery energy radiating from it. He straightened his back and grasped its hilt with both hands. He struck the floor once.
The tip of his blade sent out a ringing sound that bounced off the walls, the ceiling, the floor and any other surface in the area. He struck the floor again, Firemaw’s runes glowing softly. A third strike and the sound echoed throughout the crypts. A fourth and the whole Undercity vibrated. A fifth and Firemaw was singing. Bolvar lifted his sword into the air and brought it down for the sixth and final time.
A massive wave of fire sped outwards, surging beyond the crypt he was in, beyond the innermost part of the underground city, through dungeons and past tombs while all the green fluid sizzled and evaporated, all that was corrupted purified, all that was wicked eradicated until the fire poured out of every crack, hole, every passage and doorway, and washed over the land above.
The light died down and the darkness returned. A cool air hissed through the royal crypts, carrying no traces of smoke, demonic magic or death. Bolvar exhaled.
When he finally emerged out of the underground city Terenas was still in the throne room, his face solemn yet somewhat visibly pleased.
“You have my thanks, Highlord Fordragon. No foul evil shall ever taint these lands again.”
“What will you do now?”
“I shall watch over my daughter, as I’ve done ever since my son perished, and see to it that my kingdom is restored. She will rule wisely...I know that.”
Bolvar nodded.
“Remember, Highlord Fordragon. The sword that hangs above our heads is heavy and sharp, the thread that holds it thin and worn, and it could fall when we least expect it, even in our moments of glory and peace. Such is the burden of kings.
He turned to leave.
“Do not harbour hatred against my son, Highlord Fordragon.” Terenas’ voice brought him to a halt. “I know what he did, but he hadn’t always been like that. He was...different. He...he was a good boy.”
Bolvar glanced backwards and then left the throne room.


Bolvar traversed the now cleansed ruins of Lordaeron.
Silence had fallen ever since the spirits had been put to rest. All the fires ravaging the city had been put out and the black pillars of smoke had vanished. A steady drizzle had accompanied him ever since he had left the throne room, Bolvar’s molten body vaporising any raindrop that touched him. He stopped, buildings that had gone to rack and ruin all around him.
He caught an arrow with his left hand, melted it and turned. Another arrow cut through the air. He stepped aside to dodge it and spotted a pale elf dashing behind a wall. She rapidly fired two more arrows, leapt through a window and fired again, an arrow whizzing through a hole in another wall. Bolvar dodged the first two with ease and deflected the third. He walked towards her. “I have grown really tired of you, Sylvanas,” he said, his voice matching sometimes Ner’zhul’s and sometimes Bolvar’s.
She twanged her bow. Bolvar moved slightly, the arrow flying over his shoulder. Unburnt, Bolvar thought as he saw her clearly. If the purifying flames had reached the surface and she had been waiting for him all along, her body would’ve surely borne the marks.
A barrage of arrows. He thrust his hand upwards and a torrent of fire burst out of the ground and turned them into ash. Then he shifted his eyes to an arrow infused with dark magic, its tip black as night. This time he thrust his hand forwards and the arrow exploded into a cloud of fire and shadow.
Bolvar glanced at the sky and focused on Sylvanas again. She shot multiple times, her skill with the bow unmatched, her agility unparalleled. Yet the Lich King advanced, a shockwave making her arrows fall to the ground with a dull sound. She emerged from cover and aimed.
Sylvanas suddenly swayed and grasped her head, shaking it repeatedly. “You will not break me!” She clenched her teeth and fired.
Bolvar destroyed the arrow that had almost found its mark and laid siege to her mind. She ran towards another building, slowing briefly before managing to keep her wits about her.
“You are no different than him!” She fired. “You will enslave us all!” She fired two arrows at once, both leaving a shadowy trail in their path.
For a moment Bolvar saw her face clearly and what at first he thought were tears turned out to be where she had dug her nails.
“I have endured far more than you could ever possibly imagine!” Her arrows hissed past him. “You will not defile my mind!” She slid across the floor, knocked an arrow and released the string.
Galakrond swooped down and breathed fire. Sylvanas threw herself aside as she was almost incinerated and scrambled to her feet, a ring of flames sealing her and the Lich King off from the rest of the world.
She reached for her dagger as Bolvar’s fingers appeared right in front of her eyes. Bolvar slammed her head against a wall, the stone cracking. She roared, dropping her dagger, her fury unquenched, her will unbroken. It was only what Bolvar did next that made Sylvanas feel true fear.
“Do not think that I’ve forgotten about them.” Her val’kyr coalesced nearby, wailing, fiery chains restraining them.
“You think I don’t know what’s coming?” She kicked. “I know death better than you!”
Bolvar studied her as she struggled to free herself, her soul naked before him. Everything she had ever done and thought of doing was there for him to see, every single memory she cherished or wished she’d forget playing in his mind, the merriment, the tranquillity, the hatred, the rage, the despair, he felt it all.
“Silvy, Silvy, I want to play!”
“Stop calling me like that, Vereesa.”
Time fast-forwarded to her days as an adolescent as she strolled through the elven woods with her sisters.
“Isn’t he cute?”
“You should talk to him, Alleria.”
“Sylvanas should!”
“You’re the eldest! You should!”
As they burst into laughter the scene changed.
“I’ll join the Rangers.”
“Are you sure about it?”
“Yes, Lirath, I am.”
“I have the feeling Vereesa will do the same. You three better not shoot at me.”
“We’ll try.”
“Perhaps one day I’ll join the Rangers.”
And all the other memories flooded his mind.
“Lirath...Lirath is dead.”
“I will avenge him, sisters, I promise you, I will.”
“I now pronounce you, Ranger-General of Silvermoon.”
“May this bow serve you well, Sylvanas Windrunner.”
“We must stay together, sisters.”
“Always.”
“Always.”
“Shindu fallah nah! Fall back to the second gate! Fall back!”
“For Quel’Thalas!”
“Finish it! I deserve...a clean death.”
He heard a deafening scream.
“What joy is there in this curse? We are still undead, sister—still monstrosities. What are we if not slaves to this torment?”
“The capital city is ours, but we are no longer part of the Scourge. From here on out, we shall be known as the Forsaken. We will find our own path in this world, dreadlord... and slaughter anyone who stands in our way.”
“Arthas will pay.”
Black smoke rose from Lordaeron and the last thing Bolvar saw was Sylvanas clawing her cheeks in despair. At long last, he spoke. “Then perhaps it is time you knew life.”
The val'kyrs shrieked as they burnt away and their life force flowed past Bolvar, swirling across his arm and into Sylvanas. The wall cracked even further as more energy coursed through his arm, gale winds pushing away anything around them. Sylvanas screamed, kicking and thrashing like a wild beast. Tiny rocks bounced up and down as the ground shook and her body began to transform, her pale skin regaining colour, her cracked lips becoming smooth and soft, her white hair suddenly turning blonde like the light of the sun, the bloody red in her eyes giving way to a peaceful blue.
Bolvar released his grip and stepped back as she fell into a puddle of water, weeping, sobbing, real tears sliding down her cheeks. She stared at her own reflection in the puddle, panting, her heart beating like a war drum.
“What...what have you done to me?” she managed to say, her voice feeble and broken.
The ring of fire dwindled into nothingness. “I have given you back what Arthas took from you. Your destiny is in your own hands now. May those scars always remind you who you truly are. ” Galakrond landed nearby. “Go now, return to your people...and live.”
Bolvar left Sylvanas lying on the ground, weeping uncontrollably, embracing herself as she shivered. Galakrond lowered his head as he climbed on top of him.
You were too kind, Fordragon. Death would’ve been a much more fitting gift.
“Death is too merciful. Sometimes living with the consequences of your actions is far more worse than death.”
It won’t change her fate in the afterlife.
“No, perhaps it won’t, but her fate is not sealed yet,” Bolvar replied as Galakrond took to the skies. “She can still save herself.”
To think that one day you’d be the one to lecture me, Fordragon.



---


Notes:

- I hope you like the whole conversation between Terenas and Bolvar. Even though Frostmourne was shattered, I thought it would be far more interesting to have him linger in the ruins of his kingdom and watch over his daughter (Calia won't be like the character that they'll add in Legion. In this work of fanfiction she's more...fierce and perhaps...queenly.
- I hope everything doesn't seem to happen to quickly.
- If you're fans of the Forsaken perhaps you might not enjoy their fate (while they lost their city, quite a few of them managed to survive and flee to safety).
- Some of you might not like how Sylvanas behaves (perhaps she might seem excessively crazy, weak or reckless) but I thought it was appropriate considering what happened. She lost Silvermoon once, and now she's lost the Undercity and had to witness (again) the death of her people.
- I don't think that what Bolvar ultimately does to her is out of place or absurd, even. With his level of power and with the val'kyr sacrifice I think he'd be able to pull something like that off.
- The end draws near.

---

XIV
O Thanagor

Bolvar stared at his shield, the light from a nearby brazier dancing on its steel.
The door creaked open. “Highlord Fordragon, we’re ready to depart for Icecrown.”
The lion on his shield watched him, its eyes glowing as if it were truly alive.
“Sir?”
He broke away from his thoughts. “Aye.”
Bolvar then was lying on the cold ground, the foul air making it hard to breathe. He watched his fellow soldiers collapse, clawing at their throats or strangling themselves, doing everything in their power to fight back the deadly gas. All for naught, Bolvar knew as his eyelids slowly closed and noticed the red winged creatures flying towards him.
And the Lich King’s mind wandered to a different time and place, bygone and distant, and the same song echoed in his head, the elven voice that he heard haunting yet soothing.

An Karanir Thanagor.

He opened his eyes, Galakrond soaring through the air, his army marching through the now burning Silverpine Forest.
Beware of your memories, Fordragon. They fuel your greatest enemy. Ner’zhul paused. Doubt.
Galakrond flapped his wings, hurricane winds driving the smoke and ash away. Bolvar caught glimpses of the great wall that had kept Gilneas isolated, demonic energy leaking through every crack and opening. As Galakrond turned back and descended he looked at the world through the eyes of a shade, a remnant of the Third War, hovering over the waters surrounding the home of the night elves. Teldrassil was burning.
Time is running out, Ner’zhul said, fireballs hurtling against the great tree. You cannot falter now. A huge branch plunged into the sea, the cacophony of screams, roars, battle cries and explosions drowning out all other sounds.
Galakrond landed close enough to his army and Arno and Anarak greeted him. Kel’thuzad was also there, some of his cultists standing behind him.
“Has something piqued your interest, my king?” the lich said.
“Teldrassil is under siege.”
Arno glanced at him. “That can’t be good.”
“Hmm.” Kel’thuzad stroked his chin. “An interesting turn of events, though somewhat expected. With the night elves out of the picture, the Legion could take hold of much of Kalimdor.”
“I wouldn’t call it interesting,” Arno said, not afraid to hide his murderous intent.
All it took was one look from Bolvar and Arno was forced to calm himself down. “These hounds came from Gilneas.”
Kel’thuzad’s gaze swept over the corpses of the demonic creatures scattered throughout the forest. “So it seems.”
“We’ve slain quite a few,” Arno said, “but they keep coming.”
Bolvar looked ahead, one hand wielding Firemaw while the other clung to Galakrond’s spine. “I’ll put an end to it.” Galakrond unfolded his wings. “Keep marching.”
Galakrond took to the skies and flew at great speed towards Gilneas, the flames below bending and twisting as he passed. Bolvar spotted another group of demonic hounds feasting on the dead. Galakrond dived and breathed fire, consuming them all in one fell swoop. As Galakrond was once again soaring Bolvar saw a village that had been completely razed to the ground and to his right were the haunted ruins of Shadowfang Keep, green embers highlighting the tower that had been recently destroyed. Gilneas hadn’t been spared either, the old and battered Greymane Wall covered in huge craters.
Galakrond stopped opposite the main gate. Bolvar leapt down and the dragon flew back to the army, blowing dust and ash into the darkness beyond. “Such is the burden of kings.” He stepped forward.
It was dark, perhaps even darker than the underground kingdom of the nerubians. All he saw was a faint green glow. Bolvar approached the light, Firemaw humming louder than when he had entered the city. What at first he couldn’t make out turned out to be spikes jutting out of the ground, bodies of undead and living humanoids impaled on each one of them, the black stone they were made of pulsing intermittently, the energy they drained flowing towards the structure encircling the demonic light.
A portal, Ner’zhul said, and then Bolvar turned.
“Who dares challenge the might of the Legion?” A pair of green eyes hovered in the darkness, a bright green flame burning above them, and soon after a pit lord showed himself, his massive double-bladed polearm glinting.
Bolvar observed him, unfazed.
“A human? A mortal? No...you’re no mortal.” The demon inhaled. “Yes, I can feel it...I can sense it, the power, seething within you.” He spun his weapon. “I am Razzodha, the Black Flame, and I was given this land by Kil’jaeden himself.”
“This land is not yours to take.”
Razzodha let out a guttural laugh. “That is not for you to decide. This world belongs to the Legion and the Legion only.” Both ends of his polearm were set aflame. “Prepare yourself, creature, and face me.”
Pit lords are formidable opponents. Powerful, fearsome, and arrogant. “Let’s get this over with.”
Demonic flames suddenly appeared, sealing off the main gate and any other exit. “Mannoroth taught me his ways,” Razzodha said. “You shall not leave this place alive.”
The air shimmered around Firemaw. “We’ll see about that.”
Razzodha sprang forth, the earth trembling, spinning his weapon as he was coming upon him. Bolvar leapt aside as the pit lord struck the ground with all his might, a fissure of green fire carving its way forward. Razzodha immediately charged back at him, Bolvar ducking as he swung and then raising Firemaw to block.
Their weapons clanged together, the force of the impact cracking the earth beneath Bolvar’s feet. As they pushed against each other an image of another pit lord flashed through his mind.
“Show me your true power.”
Bolvar shoved the pit lord’s weapon to one side and rolled away as he swung again, briefly glancing at the portal. The portal is fully active, Ner’zhul said. Destroy it before more demons pour into this world.
“Still holding back?” Razzodha grunted. “Then I will show you what true power is.” He pointed his weapon, demonic energy sizzling around its tip.
Bolvar stood his ground as black and green flames sped towards him, destroying anything in their path. The beam made contact with Firemaw’s flat side, a fiery aura protecting Bolvar himself. He slid backwards as the pit lord channelled all his might into the spell, the portal behind him. From the corner of his eye he saw countless more spikes around the portal where more undead and living beings were being deprived of their life force and all the felhounds hiding in the darkness, hungering, waiting for Razzodha’s command. The beam grew stronger, tiny rocks floating into the air and then disintegrating. As he slid closer to the portal he glanced at the barren world on the other side, scarred by demonic magic, drained of all life, the same fate that had befallen the orcs’ home and would soon befall Azeroth.
Bolvar swung Firemaw, deflecting the beam, and then thrust, a torrent of fire surging forward, devouring Razzodha’s magic and swallowing him whole. The pit lord shrugged off the pain, his body smoking, and a fiery chain hurtled out of the portal, seizing him.
“What?” Razzodha bellowed.
Bolvar rushed to meet him. “I have a gift for your masters,” he said while the pit lord attempted to free himself, striking the chain.
“Pitiful tricks,” Razzodha said and spun his weapon, unleashing a wave of green fire.
Bolvar ran straight through it, unharmed, and clutched his sword.
“Yes, come.” The pit lord ignored the searing chain and readied himself. “Come and face me once and for all.”
The double-bladed polearm came hissing down, sundering in two as Firemaw arced upwards. Bolvar bounded onto the demon, pushing his seething blade through Razzodha’s armoured plate and into his belly and climbing up his torso, his weapon switching hands as he reached his face.
Bolvar slammed his hand against Razzodha’s face, fire gushing into his body, his eyes losing their foul green tint, the flame on his hair also becoming a fiery red.
“So...much...power,” Razzodha said, overwhelmed.
Bolvar disengaged and extended his arm. The fiery chain began dragging the pit lord away, steam and flames escaping his body.
“No.” Razzodha swayed left and right, struggling to stand on his clawed feet. “No...it...it cannot be.” His hands clung to the structure around the portal. “NO.”
With one gesture the chain pulled the pit lord through the portal, scores of demons moments away from crossing. Bolvar heard grunts and growls until a loud roar came and an explosion rocked the demons’ world, fire bursting out of the portal until it suddenly sealed.
Too many games, Fordragon. You could’ve easily destroyed the portal yourself.
The felhounds sprang out of the darkness, dashing past the spikes and the ruins of Gilneas like rabid beasts. He remembered Icecrown, the war against the Lich King, the undead outnumbering the living, and stared at those who had been sacrificed by the pit lord. “The dead deserve peace.” He raised his hand, burning concentric circles forming around him, the largest one encompassing the spikes, the portal’s structure and everything else that had been tainted by the Legion.
He closed his fist. The earth erupted, a firestorm engulfing everything around him, the felhounds burning away, the Legion’s traces being erased, the dead finally knowing peace, and at the end of it all the Lich King stood in the darkness, shining light where there was none.


“Who was that pit lord?”
Bolvar stepped out of Gilneas through the main gate. Mannoroth, Ner’zhul replied. My kind would’ve never survived if he had not been stopped.
The same raven that had followed him across Northrend was now flying nearby, cawing. “You tried to stop him.”
I did what I could.
“I did what I could,” Varian had told him while they stood on one of Stormwind Keep’s many balconies, his hands resting on the balustrade. “I did what I could...no, I did everything I could and yet...I lost her.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Bolvar replied, squeezing his shoulder. “Those Stonemasons and that damn Edwin VanCleef, they are the ones who killed her, Varian, not you.”
Varian shook his head. “I loved her, Bolvar, I truly did. Tiff, she...she was beautiful...she was...”
“I know, Varian.” He sighed. “I know.”
“Perhaps this is what my father meant.” Varian set his eyes on the full moon. “The very thing that makes us kings.”
He looked at him. “Hmm?”
Varian breathed deeply. “Sacrifice.”
Bolvar blinked twice as he came to his senses. He saw Galakrond’s huge form in the sky, the blazing orbs in his sockets scanning the land below, and made his way to the main road where his army would meet him, ash falling steadily. A meteorite struck the mountains in the east, puddles and pools of fetid green water rippling as the shockwave passed over them, a landslide rumbling down a slope. A peal of thunder came from beyond the mountains.
“I would gladly bear any curse to save my homeland.”
Bolvar found himself in a frozen desert, snowflakes falling down, and there to his left stood Arthas wielding neither Frostmourne nor wearing the Helm of Domination, staring at his hand. The wind howled past them, whipping the prince’s white hair. Arthas clenched his fist as he closed his eyes and then glanced in Bolvar’s direction, their gazes meeting before he turned away, everything vanishing in a whirlwind of snow.
“My king.” Anarak bowed, the army behind him.
Bolvar nodded and signalled them to advance. Two more meteorites pierced the clouds as they marched through the mountains, crashing somewhere in the Eastern Kingdoms.
“They leave destruction wherever they go,” Arno said, the road cracked and ruined, veins of demonic fire burning endlessly, the corruption even creeping up the mountains, yet wherever Bolvar went the Legion’s influence subsided. “I hope they’re safe,” he then muttered to himself.
“This is a fraction of their power.” Kel’thuzad said, hovering beside them, leaving a trail of ice. “I was there when Archimonde crushed the city of Dalaran. All it took him was one single spell.” He paused. “Kil’jaeden is even more powerful.”
Arno shook his head. “They’re like gods.”
“All gods bleed,” Kel’thuzad said. “One must only find the courage to strike them.”
Galakrond perched on the mountaintops, watching over the millions of burning eyes nearing the Hillsbrad Foothills, the banners of the Scourge flapping wildly. An impaled undead man welcomed them to the region, his legs and arms missing.
“More of the Banshee Queen’s people, sire.” Anarak clicked his mandibles. “The Legion must’ve got him while he fled.”
Soon after they left the mountains behind them, Galakrond following suit.“By the Light,” Arno said as all he saw was fire and death. “It was...so green here once, so peaceful...and now it’s all gone.”
“This land was gone long before the Legion came,” Kel’thuzad duly corrected him. “The Forsaken chose it as their testing ground for their...chemical endeavours.”
Another peal of thunder reached their ears, prompting Bolvar to move again. The Scourge poured into the foothills and marched forward, past burnt fields and smoking windmills.
“The plague was never met to simply kill my people. It was meant to turn them...into the undead! Defend yourselves!”
“I was born here,” Arno said, Southshore no more than a pile of rubble. “My wife and my daughter, they were born here too.” He sighed. “Hopefully things are better in Elwynn Forest.”
“Ahh.” Kel’thuzad raised his bony hands. “This certainly brings back memories.”
Anarak sniffed the air. “The stench of demonic magic is strong.” He turned as lightning streaked across the sky, the sound of thunder growing louder. “We’re close.”
They stumbled across more corpses, twisted and impaled, their eye sockets charred, all of them denizens of the Forsakens’ holdings. Bolvar’s flames enveloped them as he passed.
“More of those fiends.” Arno nodded at the felhounds and other animal-like demonic creatures emerging from hiding.
Galakrond growled and carried out the Lich King’s command, incinerating the demons and cleansing the land all the way to Southshore, clouds of steam rising from the sea. He circled back and breathed fire over Tarren Mill, the lake in his path reaching boiling point in an instant, while the Scourge approached a river that had dried up, the earth scorched and fractured where the demons had trodden. They quickly crossed and continued their march east, up and down hills, thunder and lightning accompanying their every step. Durnholde Keep was faintly visible, though the absence of trees made it easier to spot.
“So...this is it,” Arno said as he saw Thoradin’s Wall, another relic of the past, once huge and mighty, now a shadow of its former self. “The Legion left its mark here too.” He nodded at the gateway that had been blown apart, smouldering rocks and boulders strewn all over the place.
As they neared the wall they saw the storm raging above the Arathi Highlands.
“I see...only darkness...before me.”
“Highlord Fordragon?” Arno watched him as he came to a halt.
It seems you’re troubled, Fordragon. Torn, rather.
“Leave me,” Bolvar said. “There’s one last thing I must do.”
“As the Lich King commands.” Kel’thuzad bowed and hovered away alongside Arno and Anarak.
Even after all this time...even after all you’ve endured...you still feel pity. Ner’zhul grunted. But most of all, you feel pity for him.
Bolvar squeezed Firemaw, vexed by the truth.
Do not hide it, Fordragon. I know very well how you feel...how you’ve felt ever since you donned the helm...and how you’ve felt ever since you glimpsed into his memories.
“Arthas was a fool.”
As we all are, Fordragon, as we all are.
“I am not Arthas.”
On the contrary, Fordragon, you and Arthas are very much alike. Both of you fought relentlessly to save your people, and both of you became the very thing you despised, one way or another. You both cursed yourselves for the sake of others and you both selflessly sacrificed everything you held dear to save this world. You seem to forget one thing, Fordragon. It was neither the Alliance, the Horde nor anyone else that defeated the Lich King and finally brought peace. It was Arthas in the end who defeated the Lich King, him and no other.
And here you are, Bolvar Fordragon, the Jailer of the Damned, the Lich King, marching towards what could be your final battle. You have seen countless horrors, faced unimaginable threats, fought against me just like the prince had done and yet...yet your heart never faltered. You have stayed true to yourself, to the man you were.
Bolvar remembered everything all too well. “Can it be done?”
Let the dead deal with consequences of their actions, but if you are so keen on doing this, then yes, perhaps it may.
“How?”
You are the bridge between the living and the dead, Fordragon. You rule over the spirit realm and you can enter it whenever you wish. All you need to do is focus.
The sky crackled.
Fear not, Fordragon. Time and space mean nothing in the Shadowlands, but be warned...you will find no love there, only rage and despair.
Bolvar exhaled, white mist streaming out of his mouth, and gradually relaxed his grip on his weapon as he cleared his mind, the world becoming silent, a thrumming sound the only thing he could hear.
Suddenly he was standing in the middle of nowhere, darkness all around him, warm light radiating from his body and his sword. He sensed them, countless presences, all tormented souls wandering the land of the dead, tearing at each other, cowering and fleeing at the sight of him.
He projected himself forward, the Shadowlands moving beneath him, obeying his will. All those who had done ill in their lives shrank away in fear, keeping their distance from his warmth, no matter how much they craved it.
But Bolvar was heading elsewhere and had no intention of dealing with them. His mind was set on one single soul.
“Remember, Arthas. We are paladins. Vengeance cannot be a part of what we must do. If we allow our passions to turn to bloodlust, then we will become as vile as the orcs.”
The Shadowlands continued whooshing past him.
“You’ve done well, lad. This was a sound victory.”
“I don’t know Uther. The orcs were sacrificing townsfolk. I think they were trying to summon demons.”
“Have faith, lad. These orcs are trying to hold on to dying traditions. We defeated their demons a long time ago. Let’s head home. It’s been a long day.”
Bolvar knew he was getting closer.
“Gentlemen, meet Miss Jaina Proudmoore, special agent to the Kirin Tor, and one of the most talented sorceresses in the land.”
“Our sources believe the plague originated in the region north of here. We should check out the villages along the King’s Road.”
A crack.
“What were those creatures, Sergeant?”
“Undead, milord! This whole village has gone mad! We did our best to defend the villagers, but—”
“We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
A second crack.
“Naive fool. My death will make little difference in the long run. For now, the scourging of this land...begins.”
“I just pray that the grain hasn’t reached anymore villages.”
“Light, give me strength!”
A third.
“Look, I did the best I could, Uther! If I’d had a legion of knights riding at my back, I would’ve—”
“Now is not the time to be choking on pride! What we faced here was only the beginning. The undead ranks are bolstered every time one of our warriors falls in battle.”
“Then we should strike at their leader! I’ll go to Stratholme and kill Mal’ganis myself if I have to!”
“Easy, lad. Brave as you are, you can’t hope to defeat a man who commands the dead all by yourself.”
“Then feel free to tag along, Uther. I’m going. With or without you.”
More visions and more people, places and voices that Bolvar found familiar.
“Listen to me, boy. This land is lost. The shadow has already fallen, and nothing you do will deter it. If you truly wish to save your people, lead them across the sea, to the west.”
“Flee? My place is here, and my only course is to defend my people!”
“Then your choice is already made. Just remember, the harder you strive to slay your enemies, the faster you’ll deliver your people right into their hands.”
A fourth crack, louder than the previous ones.
“This entire city must be purged.”
“How can you even consider that? There’s got to be some other way.”
“Damn it, Uther. As your future king, I order you to purge this city.”
“You are not my king yet, boy. Nor would I obey that command if you were!”
“Then I must consider this an act of treason.”
“Treason? Have you lost your mind, Arthas?”
“Have I? Lord Uther, by my right of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of your command and suspend your paladins from service.”
“Arthas, you can’t just...”
“It’s done! Those of you who have the will to save this land, follow me. The rest of you...get out of my sight.”
“You’ve just crossed a terrible threshold, Arthas.”
“Jaina?”
“I’m sorry, Arthas. I can’t watch you do this.”
The darkness stirred as the past unfolded before his very eyes.
“Gather your forces and meet me in the arctic land of Northrend. It is there that we shall settle the score between us. It is there that your true destiny will unfold.”
“I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth if I have to! Do you hear me? To the ends of the earth!”
The cracks grew even louder, as if the spirit realm was on the brink of splitting apart.
“You lied to your men and betrayed the mercenaries who fought for you. What’s happening to you, Arthas? Is vengeance all that’s important to you?”
“Now, I call out to the spirits of this place. I will give anything or pay any price, if only you will help me save my people.”
A deafening crack echoed throughout the spirit realm.
“You no longer need to sacrifice for your people. You no longer need to bear the weight of your crown. I’ve taken care...of everything.”
Bolvar was seconds away from reaching his final destination.
“This kingdom shall fall! And from the ashes shall arise a new order that will shake the very foundations of the world!”
“I dearly hope that there’s a special place in hell waiting for you, Arthas.”
“We may never know, Uther. I intend to live forever.”
“After all you’ve put me through, woman, the last thing I’ll give you is the peace of death.”
“Citizens of Silvermoon! I have given you ample opportunities to surrender, but you have stubbornly refused! Know that today, your entire race and your ancient heritage will end! Death itself has come to claim the high home of the elves!”
“It is I, the Lich King. Danger draws near the Frozen Throne! You must return to Northrend immediately! Obey!”
“The runeblade, Frostmourne, was once locked inside the Throne as well. I thrust it from the ice so that it would find its way to you...and then lead you to me. And so it has. For now we face a grave danger. My creator, the demonlord Kil’jaeden, sent his agents here to destroy me. If they should reach the Frozen Throne before you, all will be lost. The Scourge will be undone. Now hurry! I will grant you all the power I can spare.”
The last and final crack.
“Now...we are one!”
And there he was, Arthas, the Prince of Lordaeron, the man whose love for his people ultimately spelt his downfall, now a mere blond child staring at the being he had once been in shock, tears streaming down his cheeks, his form blurred and evanescent.
“Father? Is it...over?” The vision swirled around them.
“At long last. No king rules forever, my son.”
Arthas, already lying on the floor, scrambled to his feet, his green eyes filled with terror, only to stumble and fall. Bolvar stepped forward, uttering nothing, his own memories manifesting themselves.
“Arthas! The blood of your father, of your people, demands justice! Come forth, coward, and answer for your crimes!”
Arthas crawled away as he came, his legs not wanting to move.
“Place the crown upon my head, Tirion. Forevermore, I will be the Jailer of the Damned.”
He wept uncontrollably as Bolvar drew closer, shading his eyes against his glowing body.
“Tell them only that the Lich King is dead…and that Bolvar Fordragon died with him.”
Bolvar knelt, Firemaw’s tip touching the black surface under their feet, and placed a hand on Arthas’ forehead.
“I forgive you.”
A flash of light rippled across the spirit realm, the darkness fading away.
Bolvar was back in the Hillsbrad Foothills, the sky thundering. He glanced backwards, his army coming towards him, and then faced the Arathi Highlands.
The road to salvation, or damnation, lies before you.
“What now, my king?” Anarak asked as they all stood beside him.
The raven cawed as it flew ahead and somehow the elven song came back to him. A song of kings, a song of life, a song of sacrifice. “We march.”

An Karanir Thanagor,

The sea of undead surged into the Arathi Highlands, sweeping across the lifeless earth.

Mor Ok Angalor.

The Lich King led them past former farmlands and ruined homes, through ash and through fire and along the road skirting the blazing ruins of Stromgarde Keep, a flower that had withered and died blooming as he walked past it.

Mor Ok Gorum Palahm...

Bolvar stood on a hill overlooking the battlefield, his eyes burning brightly.

Raval.

---

Notes:

This is a piece of fanfiction set in the Warcraft universe. No copyright infringement intended.

If you spot any mistake or inconsistency let me know.


- I suggest you listen to the Warcraft soundtracks "Arthas, my son" (the O Thanagor verses at the beginning precisely. Listen to it while reading the last scene) and "Invincible" (especially from 2:25 onwards for when he meets Arthas). It will give you goosebumps. You can find the links below.
- I hope you like it, especially the ending, and I hope everything doesn't seem to happen to quickly.
- Praised be Wowpedia (it's the best source of information as far as Warcraft lore is concerned).
- I don't know when I'll finish writing the next chapter. Hopefully soon (unfortunately life is keeping me busy).
- I also hope you like the fight with Razzodha.
- O Thanagor lyrics (from Wowpedia):

An Karanir Thanagor,
Mor Ok Angalor.
Mor Ok Gorum
Palahm Raval.

Translation:

Long live the king,
May he reign...forever.
May his strength
fail him never.


Suggested Music:

World of Warcraft OST - Arthas, my son www.youtube.com/watch?v=4n6WP9…
World of Warcraft OST - Invincible www.youtube.com/watch?v=86f_U_…

---

XV
Wrath of the Lich King

“Do not lose faith!”
Tirion pulled a soldier to his feet and waved at another lot to make haste, hollering.
“Tirion!” he heard Darion Mograine’s voice.
The Ashbringer rang out as Tirion deflected the blow from a sword-wielding demon, both of his blades burning a bright green. He parried a second time and a burst of light caught the demon by surprise. Tirion swung, spraying demonic blood around him, and thrust, the Ashbringer ending the demon’s life in an instant.
“HE—”
Tirion watched an infernal crush a soldier while a pack of felhounds tore another man apart, screams, shouts and battle cries echoing all over the battlefield. “Stay in formation!” he said, the combined forces of the Alliance doing their best to hold their ground.
Another soldier stumbled and fell, two armour-clad demons moments away from raining their weapons down on him, but before Tirion could spring into action the Knights of the Ebonblade rushed to the soldier’s side, undaunted, freezing the demons’ limbs and cutting them down with their swords.
“They’re t—”
The voice was cut off, Tirion gritting his teeth as he slew a bloodthirsty felhound and then trying to regain his breath. “Keep fighting!” he boomed, sweat and blood trickling down his face.
As a siege engine exploded a soldier with a general who could barely stand strode past him, hopelessness and resignation all that Tirion saw in their eyes.
“Fire away!” a dwarf commanded and an exploding shell hurtled across the sky, the dwarves in charge of the mortar already focused on reloading. “Fire again!”
“Mercy! Merc—”
Tirion took a deep breath, more voices being suddenly cut off, and looked at the endless scores of demons. “Light grant me strength,” he muttered himself, the wind shifting, and fixed his gaze on the red-skinned demon lord towering over the battlefield, his face expressionless, his mere presence sending a chill down his spine. “Do not falter!” He struck down a demon. “Mograine!” he shouted. “What’s wrong?”
Darion removed his helm and turned, but all that escaped his lips was a whisper. “He’s here.”
Tirion for a moment didn’t understand, then his heart skipped a beat as he faced the same direction, his eyes widening. “Bolvar.”


Galakrond roared, the deafening sound echoing throughout the battlefield, the ground vibrating, and the dead stormed down the hill.
“Light save us,” a human general said, pursing his lips. “Left flank! Left flank! The undead are upon us!”
“Do not change formation!” Tirion immediately shouted. “I repeat, do not change formation!”
“Have you lost your mind, Fordring? That’s the damn Lich King!”
Tirion personally shoved his weapon down. “You fool. He is not our enemy!”
“What?”
And as their eyes went to the hill Bolvar began the descent. “You know what to do.”
Kel’thuzad nodded, his cultists gathered around him. “Of course, my king, but remember, the spell will suppress his powers only momentarily.”
“It will do,” Bolvar said as he walked past him, Galakrond opening his wings to take off.
The book of Medivh hovered before the lich as he raised his hands and concentrated, an unseen force flicking through the pages, and the Lich King charged into battle alongside his army, Arno and Anarak running closely behind him, a bolt of lightning striking the earth.
“For the dead and the living, for the sake of this world and our souls!” Arno lifted his sword. “For the Lich King!”
“For the Lich King!”
The Scourge slammed into the demonic army like a tidal wave, bones breaking, steel shattering, swords clanging, breaking through the enemy lines whilst Galakrond breathed fire over the demons assaulting the Alliance, the soldiers cowering and taking cover at the sight of the great dragon.
Bolvar sliced in half more demons than he could count as the undead fought their way forward, fighting two more at once as he went through the flaming wreck of a gunship. Firemaw made quick work of them, their wounds glowing and steaming, and Bolvar faced his next opponents. Arno was nearby, swinging his weapon in a fiery arc, close to the vrykul who had fought in Icecrown alongside them now beheading demons with his massive axe. Anarak was just as fierce, slaughtering anyone in his path.
Lightning struck again as the Legion felt the Lich King’s wrath, his pace never changing, no matter how many fireballs smashed into his army. The Scourge pressed on, unrelenting, while Galakrond dominated the skies, devouring and incinerating the winged demons attacking him. Bolvar then heard a rallying cry, the humans shouting at the top of their lungs, and an infernal charged at him, stamping on a ghoul as it came. The air around his fingertips began shimmering and soon after he thrust his hand, the infernal exploding into thousands of pieces. As he ran through the rain of debris he saw a being made of fire and stone bigger than any of the infernals treading the field of battle, unleashing a tremendous roar as their gazes met.
Bolvar immediately waved his hand and the demonic construct lost its footing as the land beneath it gave in. Before it could even open its mouth and utter another one of its roars Galakrond snatched the construct by one of its arms and then ripped off its head with his powerful jaws, dropping the lifeless stone away from the army.
“Bolvar!”
Bolvar thrust Firemaw into a demon and reduced another one to ashes, nodding at Tirion as he seized the shield that the paladin had tossed him, altering its shape as he infused his power into it, the lion of Stormwind twisting into a dragon of fire and steel. They fought side by side, both of their weapons hissing through the air, the soldiers of the Alliance attacking with renewed vigour.
“It’s an honour to see you again, Highlord Fordragon.” Darion Mograine and the other death knights nodded as well, Thassarian and Koltira amongst them, their eyes glowing a cold blue, the lot of them also acknowledging Arno who then gave the enemy a taste of the Lich King’s fire.
Bolvar slammed his shield against a demon, slashing at a second. He caught glimpse of a third flying towards him and raised his shield, its metal heating up until it released a burst of fire, the demon plummeting to the earth as it burnt away.
“Fight!” Tirion shouted to his comrades, the Ashbringer gleaming. “Fight like you’ve never fought before!”
A gyrocopter crashed down as a demon with multiple limbs leapt at him, only to suddenly fly out of his way as Arno intervened. Bolvar then drove Firemaw through a skull, the demon falling limply to the ground, and advanced, his shield blocking a fireball whooshing towards him.
“You.”
Bolvar came to a halt as he saw the distant demonic eyes that had been watching him ever since he had joined the battle, the eredar’s lips twitching as they stared at each other, his arms crossed.
“You should not have come here.” Kil’jaeden said as he lowered his hands, his voice followed by the crash of thunder.
Bolvar squeezed Firemaw, rage welling up within him, a rage that was not only his.
“You and that demon hunter are my greatest mistakes.” No matter how far away he was, Kil’jaeden could be heard loud and clear. “I warned you what would happen if you thwarted the Legion’s plans. I warned you what would happen if crossed me.” He unfolded his wings. “No...this will not go unpunished. What I will do to you will be much worse than anything that fool of an orc ever experienced.” The air crackled with tension, his burning aura intensifying. “Now face my eternal wrath!”
Tirion clutched the Ashbringer. “Take co—”
Fire hurtled towards him. Bolvar raised his shield and absorbed the blow, the force of the impact pushing him backwards. More fire came, the shield protecting him once more, cracks forming across its metal. Kil’jaeden grew furious as he deflected the spell a third time.
“I CREATED YOU.”
A torrent of fire and shadow streaked across the battlefield, Bolvar quickly taking cover behind his shield, enemies and allies alike that stood in its way meeting their demise.
He was flung backwards as his shield shattered, the world spinning, rolling across the ground until he managed to rise back to his feet, Firemaw still in his hand. Just as Kil’jaeden was about to mutter another spell the sky rumbled and a green meteor hurtled downwards, crashing into the throng of demons. A pair of warglaives appeared as the cloud of dust settled.
“My apologies for the delay,” Illidan said, his body covered in blood and dirt, his tattoos reeking of power. “The situation in Kalimdor was more troublesome than I expected.”
Bolvar exchanged a glance with him and the demon hunter turned, the eredar glaring at him.
“Stormrage.” Kil’jaeden huffed.
Illidan changed his stance. “We have a score to settle, demon.”
Kil’jaeden looked at the battlefield, at the armies of the living and the dead pushing further inwards, at the demons rushing to meet them. “Do we?” he said. “The score was settled the very moment you showed yourself, little mongrel.” A shockwave swept across the land. “Do not think that I’ve forgotten about the Legion’s failures.” His hands began weaving an incantation. “I have prepared...accordingly.”
Burning runes appeared in each corner of the battlefield, the air around them shimmering.
Stop him, Fordragon! He cannot be allowed to complete the spell!
The runes became brighter, the entirety of Arathi Basin trembling. “GALAKROND.”
Galakrond heeded Bolvar’s call, growling, and veered towards the eredar, his shadow passing over them. He breathed fire, Kil’jaeden briefly vanishing out of sight, his runes dimming, and circled back, enshrouding him in flames until the demon lord muttered a spell which smacked him out of the skies. Galakrond crashed to the earth and leapt at him, forcing Kil’jaeden to wrestle with him as they clashed, the world feeling the weight of their steps. Kil’jaeden shoved him away and Galakrond charged again, his jaws kept open by the eredar until he shoved the great dragon once more, his magic flinging the undead creature farther away from him.
Galakrond roared but as he took flight rods of solid demonic fire rained from above, plunging into his skull and all across his spine, pinning him down.
“Pathetic,” Kil’jaeden said, rocks rising into the air as the runes burst into flames, gravity itself dwindling. His hand reached for the heavens. “Your souls are m—”
Everything fell back down and the runes became mere etchings as chains erupted out of the ground beneath him, shackling his hands and legs, keeping him in place.
“Impossible,” he snapped, furiously tugging at the chains. “What kind of sorcery is this?” He tried to pry open one of the manacles but to no avail.
Bolvar looked back, Kel’thuzad nodding as he sealed Medivh’s book and making his way towards him.
“What now?” Arno said.
He could feel his numbers thinning down, the dawning realisation that the battle could soon come to a standstill.
“This is our only chance.” Tirion waved forward. “Ch—”
“Hush, human,” Illidan interrupted him. “You cannot defeat an eredar lord with mere weapons. Only great power can do so.” He glanced at the lich and then at Bolvar. “I presume the spell is only temporary.”
“We must make haste,” Darion joined in. “We can’t hold out much longer.”
There is a way.
His mind silenced all other sounds as his attention went solely to Ner’zhul. “What do you mean?”
There is a way to defeat him, Fordragon, but this will spell the end of you, of me, of the Lich King.
Bolvar stared at his hand as he remembered the vision, cinders whirling about him, the past, present and future flashing before his eyes, his life, his sacrifices, his choices, his mistakes, everything that had led to this very moment. His fingers curled into a fist as he accepted his fate.
Ner’zhul sighed. Then perhaps it is time I told you my story, or rather, showed it to you.


“Elder Shaman, please, grant him your blessing.”
Ner’zhul placed the hand on the child’s head, smiling. “You have my blessing and that of the spirits.”
“Thank you.” The female orc bowed as she made her way out, always facing him. “Thank you.”
More and more people came, all of them paying their respects to him, seeking his blessing and wisdom.
“All the clans wish you well, Ner’zhul, and they look forward to seeing you at the forthcoming Kosh’harg festival.”
The scene changed and Ner’zhul was staring at a spirit, beautiful by orcish standards, tears welling up in his eyes, his heart both aching and brimming with joy.
Love, Bolvar felt it as well as the memories overwhelmed him in the blink of an eye, people, events and places that until a moment ago he had never been privy to.
“Ner’zhul,” she said, “my mate, this is a new beginning. You have led our people well, but the time has come to deepen the old ways, take them further, for the good of all.”
Then there was a different being that appeared to him, a being that Rulkan herself introduced him to. The Great One, his name was, and soon after another memory came, Ner’zhul standing on a hill praised by all the clans, every single one of them heeding his will, the draenei paying the price of their inevitable treachery, and yet instead of basking in his newfound glory all he did was wonder why the spirits had forsaken him.
Doubt.
Ner’zhul was staring at himself in the waters of a lake, wondering why the Great One bore so much hatred for beings that looked very much like him, and as the memories darted past him Bolvar found himself within a mountain, Rulkan looking at her own mate in disgust, her words more painful than anything Ner’zhul had experienced in his life.
Resolve.
Ner’zhul sat in his hut writing a letter, aware of what would happen if he were discovered now that Gul’dan had taken his place and had been chosen by Kil’jaeden, his heart skipping a beat whenever a noise came.


You will be asked to drink. Refuse. It is the blood of twisted souls, and it will twist yours and those of all who imbibe. It will enslave you forever. By the love of all we once held dear, refuse.


Pain overcame Ner’zhul as the news of Draka’s and Durotan’s death reached him and the Horde, corrupted by Mannoroth’s blood, slaughtered the draenei until none of them were left, his kind doomed by him and him alone.
Power.
Ner’zhul held the skull of his former apprentice before his eyes, his own face painted with a white skull, his lust for more power unending. Then he was standing in a barren landscape, the artefacts he was using redirecting all the energy of the planet to him, the surge of power making him ecstatic, driving him mad.
“The other orcs are lost. They have served their purpose. From this point on, all that we gain will be ours alone. I am the Horde, and I will survive. Choose me, or choose death!”
Despair was all that Ner’zhul knew as soon as he stepped through the portal, Kil’jaeden glaring at him with his burning eyes.
“You could not leave well enough alone. I knew that eventually you would try to cast magics you were not ready to handle and did not understand. I waited, knowing that some day your own arrogance would bring you to me. And here we are! You have dreamed of death. You thought to escape it. Now, my little puppet, death will be all you ever know.”
And suffering was all he felt as the demon lord tore his flesh, crushed his bones and ripped off every part of his bodily form, his screams and pleas ceasing only when Kil’jaeden presented him a set of black armour forged by the demons themselves, the helm that which stood out the most, and gave him a choice, a way to end his torment, oblivious of what that implied.
Vengeance was what he coveted the most as his spirit was eternally bound to the armour, encased in a block of ice atop the tallest spire in Icecrown, his power extending far beyond the Frozen Throne, his hatred for Kil’jaeden and the Legion itself increased with each passing day.
At last Bolvar saw a section of the ice quivering until it was cast out from the Lich King’s icy abode, hurtling through the air and finding its way into a cave where it would lay untouched and forgotten, waiting for the prince that would then claim it.
Only a few moments had gone by when Bolvar finished beholding the life of the Ner’zhul, every time he laughed, every time he wept, everything he had done beginning with the day he was born now stored in his own mind.
“Leave this place,” Bolvar said, Tirion and the knights of the Ebon Blade surprised by his words. “Now.”
“What?” Tirion said. “We can still fight!”
Bolvar looked at him, the two of them remaining silent until Tirion pursed his lips.
“Retreat!” Tirion raised the Ashbringer. “Retreat at once!” He waved at his men, the generals of the Alliance repeating his command. “What are you going to do?”
Bolvar turned away, Firemaw seething. “What I was meant to do.”
Tirion lingered there, speechless, his eyes saying everything his mouth could not, and led the retreat, the knights of the Ebon Blade following him.
Make haste, Fordragon, Ner’zhul said, the eredar muttering words in the demons’ language as he struggled to free himself. The spell will only be fully effective if he’s wounded.
“I dearly hope you have a plan.”
Bolvar faced Illidan. “Can you wound him?”
“Hmm.” The demon hunter pondered the question and glanced at Kil’jaeden. “Perhaps, but I’ll need to get closer.”
“Make it quick.”
Illidan sprang into action, carving a path through the army of demons, leaping and spinning his weapons, his attacks quick and precise, while Firemaw began singing as Bolvar closed his eyes and concentrated, his grip tightening on its hilt.
“Stormrage.” Kil’jaeden saw the half night elf, half demon standing in an open space littered with the bodies of the demons he had just slain.
Illidan exhaled deeply. “So...it has come to this.”
“Fool.” Kil’jaeden’s voice echoed all over the land. “You’re no match for me. Even after consuming the Skull of Gul’dan you are still weak.”
Illidan threw his warglaives into the earth. He grew in size as his body twisted and transformed, pure darkness permeating his new form, his voice deeper than before. “Gul’dan knew more than you could possibly imagine.”
The clouds above Kil’jaeden churned, rumbling, spinning, flashing a demonic green until demonic lightning zigzagging downwards and struck the demon lord, the chains rattling violently as furious rage took hold of him.
As lightning zapped Kil’jaeden repeatedly Bolvar opened his eyes and thrust his blade upwards, a beam of flames speeding towards the sky, the clouds lighting up as the energy branched out and raced to the far reaches of the world, his presence felt by all.
“Souls of the damned who still tread the earth.” He boomed, the energy pulsing. “You who were slain and brought back against your will,” he said. “Listen to me carefully, for this will be the last time that we speak.” He had their attention, every single one of them facing the fiery sky, whether they were fleeing Lordaeron, roaming the Eastern Kingdoms, trudging through the snows of Northrend, hiding in some remote place in Kalimdor or anywhere else in the world. “I can give you the peace that you long for, if that is what you wish, and I will not force you to obey me if you choose otherwise,” he continued, the demon hunter’s magic still wreaking havoc. “Make your choice now.”
No replies came. Silence was all that there was, one that seemed like it would last an eternity and at some point Bolvar believed that it all had been for naught.
Peace, the first voice came.
Peace, another one reached his mind.
Peace. Denizens of the Undercity made themselves heard.
Peace. Hundreds more said.
Peace.
Peace.
Peace.
Peace.
Peace.
Undead from all over Azeroth heeded his words and made their choice. One by one the Lich King’s fire embraced them and then Bolvar stared at his own army, his soldiers gently falling to the ground as they were put to rest, a few death knights also joining the chorus of voices. Abominations, shades, gargoyles, skeletons, all the mindless and dangerous ones who could’ve troubled the living if left unchecked met the same fate. Galakrond, the father of dragons, the progenitor of dragonkind, slowly burnt away, Bolvar sensing a hint of relief.
“My king.” Anarak crawled towards him, many of his limbs severed, fluid pouring out of his crushed body.
Bolvar pitied him, the nerubian’s thoughts perfectly clear to him despite the cacophony in his mind. “Are you sure?”
Anarak clicked his broken mandibles. “I fought and died, I came back and fought again. Now...now I rest.”
Anarak nodded one last time as fire enveloped his body, its warmth accompanying him to the realm of the dead.
More undead bid the world of the living farewell and Bolvar looked at Arno who returned to his side after helping the others escape, his sword drawn. “Are you ready?”
Arno shook his head. “You have given me what no one else could, Highlord Fordragon,” he said. “A second chance. Should we survive this day, I shall make the most out of it.”
Bolvar accepted his decision. “Head for the hill before it’s too late.”
“Until we meet again, Highlord Fordragon.” Arno unwillingly set off, helping an injured soldier along the way.
“Fall back!” Tirion could be heard saying.
Bolvar’s eyes then went to Kel’thuzad who hovered nearby, enjoying the spectacle, not a single trace of concern on his skeletal face.
Yet nothing happened.
“You knew.”
Kel’thuzad bowed slightly. “Forgive my deception, Bolvar Fordragon, but I’m sure you understand that I had to take the necessary precautions. I’ve still got much work to do.” A portal opened up behind him, his body and the Book of Medivh spiralling inside. “So long!” He vanished as the portal closed.
“MEPHISTROTH.”
Dark wings glided out of the demonic army, the dreadlord killing with ease the undead who attempted to stop him. Bolvar saw him as he came, his claws deadly sharp.
He recoiled as flames burnt his face and a sword appeared between him and the Lich King. Arno stepped towards him, fearless. “By the flames of Fordragon, you will die!”
Mephistroth, feeling his master’s gaze, transformed into a swarm of bats but a wall of flames appeared before him. He mumbled some words, blades of shadow cutting through the air, and sprinted ahead, Arno’s sword inches from his pale skin as he dodged it and then successfully avoided the fiery wall, but Bolvar had already extended his hand. He bent his fingers, burning spears piercing the dreadlord’s flesh, his dark blood sizzling. As Mephistroth coughed and cursed he shifted forms and flew out of sight, Arno exchanging a nod with Bolvar soon after and quickly returning to the soldier he had been helping.
A sound of metal breaking caught Bolvar’s attention as all the undead were given peace. Kil’jaeden waved the hand he had just freed, casting a spell that tossed Illidan sideways.
He’s wounded.
“Whatever you plan on doing,” Illidan said, exhausted, now back in his normal form. “Do it now!”
The sky darkened as the fiery beam retreated back into the blade. Bolvar narrowed his eyes as he grasped Firemaw with both hands and thrust it into the ground, the whole land quaking and groaning as a massive fiery fissure made its way to the demon lord, hundreds of other cracks crisscrossing the battlefield, the demons perishing as the fire went past them, and as the chains binding Kil’jaeden were about to break the fissure reached him, a column of flames burst skywards, Bolvar gritting his teeth as he channelled all his might into the blade. Then, shadowy tendrils escaped the helm. Farewell, Fordragon, Ner’zhul said, his spirit leaving him. May the world remember you for your sacrifices and not for the mistakes that I made.
Bolvar’s soul brushed the orc’s spirit as the tendrils darted forward just above the fissure, the jewel in the helm of Domination cracking, its light flickering continuously. Ner’zhul cackled loudly as he swirled around Kil’jaeden and the darkness seeped into his wounds, for the Deceiver had been deceived.
Bolvar roared, the column of flames enveloping Kil’jaeden growing exponentially, while cracks appeared on his blade, fragments of Firemaw floating upwards, the eredar howling in rage, the living watching the being that had ravaged their lands and slaughtered their people now sacrificing himself to save them.
And Kil’jaeden exploded, the flames washing over the battlefield, burning everything they touched, heading into the sky as they surged up the slopes enclosing the battlefield, the Alliance and those who had fought with them taking cover before they could get hit.
Bolvar found himself lying on the scorched ground, the shattered remains of Firemaw beside him, the jewel in the helm lifeless. His weary eyes were fixed on the raven flying in a circle above him, cawing. As they slowly closed and the world fell silent he saw the clouds parting, sunlight beaming down onto the battlefield.
Then, at long last, the Lich King was no more.


---

Notes:

- I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter.
- Kudos to Christle Golden as bits and pieces from her two novels, Rise of the Horde and Beyond the Dark Portal, were used for Ner'zhul's memories.


Suggested Music:

World of Warcraft OST - Invincible https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86f_U_q4SFg

---

Epilogue

“Perhaps this is what the world needs.”
The raven, perched on a branch, watched King Anduin and the people of Stormwind carrying his father’s remains into the city.
“A fresh start, a new beginning.” The raven headed towards Stormwind, its castle being repaired. “A second chance.” Arno stood beside a tree, observing a girl and her mother. “A chance to grow stronger.” Grass sprouted between the stones of a ruined wall. “A chance to remember our mistakes.” The raven flew over an unmarked grave bearing the symbol of Lordaeron and continued its journey north, passing through countless lands. “A chance to mature.” Arator led the survivors of Stromgarde forward while Danath limped beside him, his arm draped over the half-elf’s shoulder. “A chance to reclaim what once was lost.” Genn Greymane arrived at the gates of Gilneas, other worgen beside him. “A chance...to be reborn from the ashes.” Men and women, young and old, rich and poor, were gathered in the throne room within the ruins of Lordaeron, a crown gleaming above the head of a woman, her blue eyes fierce, filled with determination.
“I pronounce thee, Calia Menethil, Daughter of King Terenas II, Queen of Lordaeron.” The crown was placed on her head. “Long may she reign.”
“Long may she reign.”
The raven flew on. “A chance to rest.” Tirion sat outside his home in Hearthglen basking in the sun. “A chance to make amends.” Sylvanas arrived at the gates of Silvermoon, shivering, her arms wrapped around herself.
“And here we are, Bolvar Fordragon, standing on top of the world, the Legion defeated once again thanks to the sacrifices of those who refused to bow to them.” Medivh turned to look at Bolvar who sat on the Frozen Throne. “I swore to myself that I’d never return, that I’d become a mere whisper...a legend of the past, yet much to my dismay the darkness returned.”
Bolvar studied him. “You opened that portal.”
“Aye, Highlord Fordragon, aye.” The Last Guardian paused. “You were not ready to challenge the Dark Titan himself...none of us are, yet we may have accomplished what no other mortal race has done in millennia.” Medivh stared at the sky. “For the second time in his life, he may have fallen victim to doubt.”
“What happens now?”
“Now?” Medivh laughed. “You’ve already done much, Bolvar Fordragon. All you can do now is enjoy the oncoming era of peace...but remember, you may no longer be the Lich King, but in the future this world may still need you, for only bright flames like you and Stormrage can keep the darkness at bay.”
“What about you?”
Medivh tapped his staff, its headpiece fashioned into a raven. “I shall keep watching over the mortal realm, as I’ve always done.” He stepped up to the edge of the spire. “Treasure the memories of those who perished, Bolvar Fordragon, of Ner’zhul...of Arthas. One can learn much from the mistakes of others.” He took a deep breath. “We have lost much over the past few years, but perhaps...not all is as bleak as it seems.”
Firemaw hovered out of his robes, its runes shimmering, Bolvar gripping its hilt soon after.
“Live long, Bolvar Fordragon, perhaps in time we’ll meet again.” He transformed into a raven and flew away.
Bolvar watched him disappear into the horizon, the ice within Icecrown melting and breaking off as sunshine flooded Northrend. The wind howled around the Frozen Throne, a wind neither ominous nor bitter, a wind, Bolvar knew, of change.


---

Notes:

- I hope you enjoyed reading this brief epilogue. I wanted to show you the fates of some of the other characters.

- Calia Menethil! Yay?

- The raven was Medivh all along! Surprise, surprise!

- And Bolvar is still alive! (though the Lich King isn't) I hope you liked the fact that Firemaw was not lost.

- I hope (I say hope too many times) you enjoyed this whole work of fanfiction and the way I depicted the characters.

- It feels a bit like the ending to Warcraft III, or perhaps it's just me.

- Thank you all for reading this. I truly appreciate it.

- If you liked this you may want to check out my other work of fanfiction set in the Overwatch universe. It's called Overwatch: The Gentleman Thief. You can find it here on MMO-Champion (Overwatch forum. The link is the following: http://www.mmo-champion.com/threads/...entleman-Thief ) , Fanfiction.net and DeviantART.

[Alexand3r]

I've added two more chapters. Feedback is welcome, as long as it's constructive.

[Shadowspire]

Not gonna lie, I like this story of yours. Also some of the refrences are hilRious. I hope you keep up the story

[Gamevizier]

I like this. will surely stay tuned for more chapters.

[Alexand3r]

@nightguard and @banestalker Thank you very much!

Just added another chapter, though it's quite short. Already working on the next one.

[Alexand3r]

Added Chapter VI - Reclaiming Northrend.
I hope it has that Warcraft III feel when you read it (I'm trying to distance myself from WoW's style of storytelling. The online game is fun but it doesn't do justice to the story and unfortunately I think it changed it for the worse. Not that I hate it, believe me. I like WoW and I liked most of its expansions, including MoP. I simply think that a strategy game would've made the whole lore much more intriguing. Hopefully a future strategy game, if they do make it, will retell the same events and make them more interesting.)
Anyway, this work of fanfiction will probably diverge from the original storyline from now on. I already had a general idea of how I wanted this to be and while it surprisingly has elements in common with the new expansion it is far from identical (Frostmourne fragments, for example, Bolvar's awakening, though at the moment it's too early to say that he won't have a role in Legion, even if a minor one. Then the whole conflict taking place on the Broken Isles when I'm fond of the idea that the final showdown would take place somewhere in the Eastern Kingdoms, the way Illidan returns, Sylvanas' role, Ner'zhul being alive, though I hope Metzen will change his mind, etc).

I've begun writing the next one but I do not know when it will be ready. At the moment I'm a bit busy. All I can say is that the chapter will be called "The Siege of Icecrown."
I wish I could turn this into a WCIII campaign.




Notes regarding Chapter VI:


- As I've said multiple times, the formatting here isn't great which might make reading this confusing and/or unpleasant at times. Thus, I suggest you read this on DeviantART where I think it looks much better.

- I hope the length of this chapter doesn't bother you. The next chapter will focus completely on the battle so I thought it would be best not to cram everything into one chapter.

- I hope you'll like the name given to the reforged Frostmourne. I personally like the way it sounds.

- If you spot any mistake or inconsistency let me know.

[Shadowspire]

Ilove this story.nits not over the top and the moments with nerzhul showing he does have some emotions left and regrets ar nice. One thing that bothers me and it's not your fault are the shards, since blizz announcement they make it seem like the shards were just left on the floor(blizz logic) I do prefer yours though.

I think the gnome your using is from the I can dungeons which I'm guessing you are saying he was raised again sometime during all this. Can't place the other two that came with him, keep thinking its garfrost and ingvar but might be wrong.

Over all good work, but um...the sayings bolvar said are ...odd.

But over all good job man keep it up.

P.s also was wondering if you would be ok if I posted this on the wow forums, at least the link to it. It's a great story.

[Alexand3r]

Thank you for the feedback, Shadowspire!
I feel the same way about the shards. It's one of the things I greatly dislike about the new expansion. The lore in general has taken a turn for the worse, in my opinion (but it's an online game so what can you do?).
The gnome, the construct and the vrykul are actually characters I simply made up. I think they're a nice addition.
As for what Bolvar says...
You have to keep in mind that he's not the man he used to be. He died once, came back to life with a body warped by flames, got tortured by Arthas and now carries a terrible burden. He constantly has to cope with Ner'zhul and the orc's thoughts sometimes mix and mingle with his own. He may unconsciously say things that Ner'zhul would but that the old Bolvar Fordragon would never.
For instance, when he says, "I am death" when he replies to Mal'ganis one could think that it's either Ner'zhul influencing his rhetoric or that he is simply acting like the Lich King would (the Lich King is often called by the Vrykul and the Tuskarr the God of Death or the Death God, if I remember correctly).

Again, thank you for the feedback. I appreciate it!

I made a thread in the EU forums already but if you're talking about the US forums then feel free to share the link there (as long as you give me credit). You might also want to add in the original post that they can find this work of fanfiction on DeviantART or fanfiction.net. Let me know if you post it

[Alexand3r]

"Chapter VII - The Siege of Icecrown" has been added to the original post! Let me know what you think about it.


Spoilers:
Galakrond is alive!

[Gimlix]

bump, just for all work, OP has put into it

[Shonough]

Great read! I have really enjoyed it thus far! Looking forward to Chapter VIII and beyond.

[Hellhowl]

Wow, this was awesome and very well written. Super descriptive, like I was watching a movie. I love the idea of a fiery Lich King fighting for his morality against the voice in his head, and Firemaw sounds badass. I also like how you list different feats of strength like beating a crypt-lord (probably the strongest one, even) in physical combat, ripping open fiery chasms in the ground, and even raising Galakrond while at the same time hammering in the fact that he's still only at a fraction of his full power. Really gives a sense of just how powerful Arthas really was.

[Alexand3r]

Thank you for the feedback! I really appreciate it!


I've added Chapter VIII - Everburning. You can find it in the original post (the text can't be formatted properly here so you may want to read this either on fanfiction.net or DeviantART).


Chapter VIII Notes (also added them to the original post):

- I hope you like the pacing in this chapter. It seemed perfect while I was writing it but I felt a little less certain about it while I was editing it (I gave it a quick read so maybe that's why)

- I also hope you like the cameo of a, let's say, fairly important character in the Warcraft universe.

- I hope (I say "I hope" too often) that there's not too much repetition. I dislike repetition.

- I don't know when I'll post the next chapter (IX), as I am working on my second novella (which should be published very, very soon) and life in general is keeping me busy.

- If you spot any mistake or inconsistency let me know.

[Alexand3r]

I've just posted Chapter IX - War Begins (it's very short).

Notes:

- The chapter is short and is only meant to give you a glimpse of what's happening outside Northrend and who is leading the Legion's armies on Azeroth.

- It takes place a few moments before both Mal'ganis and Bolvar see the infernals raining down.

- I wanted it to give off a Warcraft III vibe.

- It's obvious that this is different from the online game's storyline (WoD events have been altered and while I may draw inspiration from the new expansion, the plot of this work of fanfiction will be very different).


Feedback is welcome!

[Alexand3r]

...and Chapter X - The Gathering Storm is here! I hope that it's not too short and that the events don't seem to go by too quickly.


I was thinking of writing one or two brief chapters (like the chapters "The Holy & the Damned" and "War Begins") about other characters that will join the fight against the Legion.

[Alexand3r]

I've just posted two more chapters. They're very short and are only meant to give you an idea of what's going on in the Eastern Kingdoms. The next chapter will be from Bolvar's point of view again.
I don't know if anyone here is reading this, but I thought I'd update the original post anyway.

P.S.
I hope the mods don't mind my...hmm...quadruple posting.

[Morssoe]

Boring story.

[TheFirstOnes]

There is only 1 problem with the story. Other wise, AMAZING read.


Tirion is dead.

[Deleted]

This is amazing, better then the "real" books. Keep up the good work!!

[Alexand3r]

21/05/2016 Update: Added Chapter XIII!

There is only 1 problem with the story. Other wise, AMAZING read.


Tirion is dead.

This work of fanfiction doesn't follow the events in the new expansion so that's why Tirion is still alive (furthermore, the first few chapters were written before we discovered what Legion was going to be about). I'm glad you liked it though! Thank you for the feedback!

This is amazing, better then the "real" books. Keep up the good work!!

Thank you very much! I appreciate it!