Kalimdor. Year 17 since the opening of the Dark Portal.
Officially, the new round of the War began, strangely enough, not with the actions of the main players—the Old God, the elves, or the demons—but with the forgotten and dismissed Magic Aspect.
On a cloudy day high in the sky above Nordrassil, a flight of Blue Dragons emerged from the leaden clouds, almost in their full strength. Less than half a minute passed before a complex magical figure appeared in the air, where the nodal points were flying mage-lizards and the lines were runic chains that sparkled with gold despite the absence of the sun. The largest blue dot visible from the ground was slightly to the side, but many golden chains converged upon it. The center of the resulting construction remained free and was positioned exactly over a huge, completely blackened giant tree, which had significantly diminished in size compared to the time of its creation at the Source of Magic. After a mere five minutes (a period that was incredibly modest compared to the power and scale of the spell being prepared), a blinding torrent of light tore through the clouds. A stream of unstructured energy the color of liquid gold rushed toward the corrupted territory, as if the dragons had managed to puncture the sun, allowing the excess molten solar matter to pour out onto Azeroth.
Perhaps N'Zoth, due to the suddenness, could not prevent the ensuing strike, or perhaps he simply did not want to, having already obtained most of the energy he needed from the rotted wood. However, because the vengeful Malygos did not think about the consequences—unlike Azshara, who had also been eyeing the overgrown oak—the Old God suffered somewhat more damage than he himself had expected from the mere loss of a source of natural energy.
Contrary to logic, the solar fire did not immediately begin to annihilate everything it touched, but behaved like thick oil: part of it splashed around the area, while another part began to envelop the black tree, soaking into its Void-stained trunk and rushing further down toward the roots of the World Tree. At first, the black mixed with the gold, creating dark streaks that quickly dissolved as they were fed by the dragon spell.
The corrupted Source filled with light; gold spread through the black cracks that scarred the earth at the base of the tree. And so, having waited for the crossing of the point of no return, Malygos broke the spell and commanded a retreat.
A dozen of the slowest or unluckiest dragons did not manage to vanish into portals and were forced to personally witness their life's final performance, presented not by just anyone, but by Azeroth itself. The two opposing Elements—Darkness and Holy, amplified by fire—were caught in a delayed reaction, and the energy contained within them was spent on destroying their direct competitor.
Azeroth was lucky once again. The flash and the subsequent massive explosion were child's play compared to the tragedy that had unfolded ten thousand years ago. But even so—the leveling of the mountains of Mount Hyjal, a massive tsunami wave, and a magical storm—these were not circumstances that would please the inhabitants of Azeroth, especially those who were uninvolved in the current events. However, most of the latter didn't give a damn about some Mount Hyjal on some Kalimdor, but the wave rolling across the Great Sea or the magic raging across the world—that was a different matter entirely.
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Draenor. Netherstorm.
Demons did not like to look for complex paths. Yes, they were cunning, they dodged, they tried to find profit in anything, and from the outside, it seemed as if direct routes were strictly forbidden for them when solving assigned tasks. However, show them a short path leading to success, and the vast majority of Sargeras's "subjects" would inevitably rush along it, sweeping away everything in their path. The invasion of the shard of Draenor followed the same principle.
The place of least resistance for opening portals from the Twisting Nether to the orcs' homeland was an area called Netherstorm. It was here that the fabric of space became blurred, allowing Chaos magic to more easily influence physical laws to the point of ignoring them completely. Therefore, the name of the location quite accurately reflected the essence of the madness occurring on this group of floating islands. Emerging from the dark-green ovals of spatial caverns, a pair of demonic legions led by several Nathrezim, without overthinking it, immediately headed as a mob toward their destination, the Throne of the Elements, without being distracted by the Tempest Keep visible in the distance...
Of course, they faced a journey that was long by the standards of this tiny world—to go from the very edge to the center—but then again, what is a week's journey compared to a ten-thousand-year wait? Exactly, nothing. And the leaders of the Burning Legion thought the same. Along the way, they could dispose of witnesses to the demons' triumphant return to these lands. Such a plan was better than trying to capture the desired location with a systematic offensive—the strike had to be swift to leave the enemy, who would suspect nothing until the very end, as little time as possible to plan a defense.
The Throne of the Elements itself—the concentration of this world's natural energy—was not the ultimate goal of the Fel creatures' invasion. They simply wanted to use it to summon their master. Despite the apparent accessibility of Draenor for a breakthrough of demonic hordes, Lord Archimonde was not on such terms with Fel that a "living" world would throw its "gates" open for him. Regarding such a pathetic scrap of land, the "doors" to which were "wide open"—squeezing through the "leaves" represented an almost impossible task for a being of such weight class. Nature did not tolerate the spawn of Fel and sought in every way to prevent Chaos from entering its domain. That was why Archimonde required external support; otherwise, he would have settled all matters on Azeroth personally long ago... well, or at least together with Kil'jaeden...
Last time, when the demons frolicked on Draenor, the orcs' homeland was reduced to one-fifth of its original territory. Now, nothing was supposed to remain of the world, but such was the "side" effect of redirecting the flow of energy from sustaining the dying shard to building a portal to the "other" end of the Void. Which did not bother the commanders of the invasion army in the least: a world without a Source did not collapse instantly; there was plenty of time to reach the Dark Portal leading to the Legion's true goal—Azeroth. Archimonde was focused exclusively on victory, so after passing through the Portal, if the Legion planned to return at all, it certainly wouldn't be by this route...
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Alterac.
Ten people were walking across a mountain meadow lightly dusted with snow. Among them, a young man in plate armor with a hammer on a sling behind his back stood out, not feeling the weight of the iron hung upon him at all, along with a young girl in a priestly robe. The rest were guards and escorts, from whose number people had been detached to stay with the horses at the entrance to the valley.
"And who came up with the idea to hide a cursed artifact in such a wilderness?" complained the most tired escort to no one in particular; his plump form suggested he was by no means a career brawler, but rather a court careerist.
Prince Arthas didn't particularly hide where he was going, and so his people periodically took to discussing the goal of the journey. And now, as they had almost reached it, one of those moments had arrived.
"The wilderness is one thing, but it's freezing here, my teeth are chattering!" his neighbor—outwardly an obvious "colleague" in chair-warming—readily supported the conversation.
"And you think artifacts should just be lying around anywhere? As far as I'm concerned, this is exactly where they belong!" declared the third participant in the struggle for the crown prince's attention, then immediately added inconsistently: "Though, of course, it could be warmer here..."
The other escorts refrained from the bickering, either saving heat or being more responsible people who had ended up in the retinue through connections rather than personal merit.
"I think it's over there," the girl peering at the map said, ignoring the quiet voices behind her, and pointed a finger uncertainly toward the forest.
"No, dear," the tall blond man walking with her at the head of the detachment, bearing the marks of the Menethil Dynasty on his clothes, shook his head. "That way."
The prince's gauntlet pointed toward a cliff rising about fifty degrees to the left of the spot indicated by the "guide." The young girl smiled sheepishly but charmingly and admitted her failure in her assigned role as guide:
"Sorry, Arthas, but these maps are Greek to me."
"It's alright, not everyone is meant to be a scout or a Pathfinder; someone has to be strong, and someone has to be beautiful, like you..."
"Thank you!"
For the rest of the way to the goal, the pair cooed sweetly, while the group following them lagged behind so as not to interfere with the prince's communication with his passion. The guards began to argue in whispers on the old topic of when the prince would finally "pluck this flower": some declared convincingly that it would only be after the wedding, others that the young couple would observe church traditions to the end and would not part with their innocence as long as they held the ranks of priestess and Paladin—in short, the people entertained themselves as best they could...
They reached the sought-after "ruins," which turned out to be a dilapidated annex to the entrance of an abandoned mine, in about five minutes: they were hidden right at the foot of the cliff noticed earlier. Naturally, quiet whispers of commentary immediately followed regarding the pathetic nature of the scene before them.
"And this is where a cursed sword of immense power is located?"
"Yes, doubtful..."
"We'll be lucky if we find a pickaxe."
"I don't really want to wander underground for half a day digging in Dwarves' backsides..."
"We don't have enough torches for half a day."
"Why do we need torches if we have a priestess and a Paladin with us?"
"Are you suggesting the prince and his girl work as lamps for you, wise guy?"
"No, but..."
"Alright, everyone, attention!" Arthas stopped the bickering. "I'm going inside with Dayana; the rest of you—guard the entrance."
"But Your Highness!.." the loyal subjects protested instantly in unison, and as usual, the most vocal were the most useless of the subordinates.
"According to the description, it's a dead end in there, so guard the entrance and I won't be going anywhere."
"But what if there's an ambush inside? Bandits or monsters," frowned the Human Captain of the Royal Guard, who led the prince's security. "Your Highness, have mercy, we cannot let you go alone!"
"Arthas, let them do as they must," Dayana interceded for the escort, touching the young man's shoulder. "It is their duty to protect you, no matter what happens."
After a moment's thought, the young man was forced to admit she was right.
"Well, alright, detail as many men as you need, Captain."
The aforementioned Captain, before giving orders to the whispering men, nodded gratefully to the girl, of whom he had formed a very good impression—in all the time of their acquaintance, she had never once created problems for the prince's guards and even the opposite, like just now, always tried to make their lives easier. The experienced soldier only regretted that she hadn't managed to talk the prince out of this trip (which he had personally witnessed) in such troubled times.
Less than two minutes later, the once-again-diminished detachment vanished into the maw of the mine. A dozen of the most talkative people settled at the entrance. And even if these people were for the most part Closet Mages and paper-pushers, they had all undergone military service long ago, and a couple of soldiers were present among them. But even if they had all been Elite Rangers of the Lordaeronian army, they still wouldn't have noticed they were being followed: to see through the Nathrezim, masters of Subtlety, was not given to every elf, let alone ordinary short-lived humans. And the demons weren't just watching—they had better things to do than watch useless little humans!—they were waiting for an order. From there, they were either to eliminate everyone or... protect them on the way back.
Meanwhile, the group led by the prince reached the destination. The records obtained by Dayana at her beloved's request had not lied—the underground passage was indeed short and ended in a semicircular hall. In the center was a small pedestal on which lay an ordinary-looking block of ice, and sticking out of it was the aforementioned "cursed sword," the goal of the journey. Around the "still life" was a light, barely visible frost haze.
"Well, judging by the skull on the hilt, the blade is certainly not one of the good ones," the prince was the first to comment on the sight revealed to the group in the rays of artificial light.
"Looks dangerous," the Captain assessed from his point of view.
"Arthas..." Dayana didn't continue, only casting a worried look at the young man.
"It's alright, Dayana, I can handle it," he touched the girl's palm reassuringly one last time and headed toward the center, turning as he went to throw back an order: "No one interfere!"
The young man flared with Holy light and, in his shining armor, walked with a firm step toward the sword trapped in the block of ice, placing his palm no less confidently on the hilt to attempt an equally dramatic removal from its frozen captivity. But something went wrong... The prince froze, but the Holy light he emitted did not fade in the least; the frost aura didn't go anywhere either and, being a spawn of Chaos, did not react in any way to its closest colleague on the energy distribution scheme of the Elements in the Universe. What can you do: Chaos and Holy themselves were never at war, unlike the personalities who used them...
And from that moment, the theater of one talented director named Mephistroth split into two virtually non-intersecting scenes, in one of which this Nathrezim became a direct participant, playing one of the leading roles.
The view from the prince's companions.
When Arthas grabbed the cursed blade, he froze. Troubling flickers of Holy light, in the Captain's view, ran across his body, but seconds passed and nothing terrible happened until the frozen sword flared with an ominous blue glow. The people, naturally, became agitated. The Captain gripped the hilt of his useless sword and stepped forward, for unknown purposes. But the "holy" priestess managed to react first.
"He has entered a confrontation with the artifact's will! I will help him myself! Do not go near him."
The girl held out an amplifier-wand, which after a couple of seconds disgorged a whole wave of Holy light shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow, as strange as such a phrase might sound. At the same time, every Lordaeronian present was absolutely certain the spell belonged to the holy magic of priests, which was famous among the common population for its ultimate effect on all sorts of dark things. And, in general, they were right, though only halfway. The rainbow stream, of course, belonged to the school of Holy, but it was nothing more than an impressive-looking light show that caused no harm to anyone. Nevertheless, from the point of view of simple warriors, the act looked impressive. Arthas's figure was enveloped in radiance, and the struggling prince seemed to take heart... at least outwardly, it looked exactly like that.
Dayana, meanwhile, froze in an incredibly dramatic pose, holding the raised wand with one hand and pointing it toward her beloved. From her strained face and the trickling drops of sweat, it was perfectly clear that supporting Arthas was not easy for her. The soldiers were filled with sincere respect—not everyone expects a young slip of a girl to participate in a confrontation with the forces of Evil. The funniest thing was that using the artifact, passed off as an amplifier-wand but in fact being a converter into Holy magic, was actually difficult for a relative of succubi, so the tension was not feigned. On the other hand, the girl didn't expect to be entertaining the soldiers for more than five to ten minutes—that was exactly how long, in her modest opinion, it should take her boss to persuade the prince to join the Legion...
The view from Arthas Menethil.
When his hand, encased in a plate gauntlet, closed on the hilt, the colors of the world before him faded and sounds vanished, despite his functioning aura, which according to his mentor was supposed to significantly weaken the effects of dark forces, if not nullify them entirely! Meanwhile, Arthas was not frightened in the least, for the sword had no personal effect on him; he simply squeezed his fingers tighter on the hilt and tried to pull the blade out with a jerk. However, it did not budge. And at that moment, the young man heard a voice in his head... or voices. They were whispering something very quietly, on the edge of hearing; phrases overlapped, making them unintelligible. Но the volume gradually increased, the voices merged until only one remained, and even if the sword (and who else, in the prince's opinion, could it be?) often cut off its sentences, making them incoherent text, at least sense appeared in them...
— "Warrior..."
— "I grant death to enemies..."
— "You thirst for power..."
— "Why..."
— "I grant life..."
— "Might overflows within me..."
— "Eternal life..."
— "Death to enemies..."
— "Salvation to friends..."
All Arthas gathered was that he had come to the right place—he and his people needed power like never before. The prince strained, and the sword began to give way, slowly emerging from the ice block. At this rate, not even a minute would pass before the formidable artifact was in his hands. Success went to Arthas's head, and he, exulting, thought:
— "I need power! You will give it to me, or I will take it myself!"
The artifact seemed to wait for the dialogue to begin. Though, why "seemed"? For those who understood the situation, everything was quite obvious—only there were no such people on the side of Holy. The blade flared with blue, and its progress toward freedom stalled, no matter what efforts the young prince applied. Power tendrils ran along the blade of the unyielding prize, which, reaching the top, locked the hilt to his palm. At the same time, the alien voice gained strength, coherence, and insinuating intonations, and Arthas stopped struggling and froze, listening, ignoring the colorless gray sparks of different tones flickering before his eyes. Had his perception been normal, the prince would have been able to see the rainbow cocoon enveloping him...
— "Why do you need power, warrior? Are you not already strong enough?"
— "No!" Arthas fiercely refuted such a suggestion; after all, can one ever have too much power? — "My enemies are stronger and there are many of them!"
— "There will always be someone stronger; there is no such thing as absolute power. Besides, even that will not help you—you will surely squander it foolishly."
— "I need power to strike down my enemies! What else could it be spent on?" There was bewilderment in the prince's last phrase.
In general, mental communication allowed one to feel the interlocutor's emotions more keenly. Which the Nathrezim communicating with the human used to the fullest. And no, he wasn't trying to control the conversation based on Arthas's read emotions; Mephistroth acted more simply and far more deviously—the demon simply intended to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, but, naturally, presenting it in the light he needed; otherwise, what kind of demon would he be if he didn't act that way? Truth in such communication was very persuasive, subconsciously forcing one to trust the interlocutor...
— "Is that so? And who do you think your enemies are?"
— "The Old God."
— "Poor, poor N'Zoth... Ten thousand years he fought the elves, and here it turns out humans consider him an enemy and are even preparing to go to war with him..."
— "He is already at war with us. His sea monsters are ravaging our coast and have captured an entire kingdom!"
— "Of course he captured Kul Tiras. The islanders entered into an alliance with the elves—why wouldn't he attack and eliminate the threat preemptively? And the coast... for all his 'omnipotence,' N'Zoth cannot keep track of every one of his soldiers. This means your shores are being attacked not by the Old God, but merely by monsters that have gotten out of hand, looking for something to scavenge. So N'Zoth is not your enemy... or not only him—after all, the Old God doesn't just want to knock the elves off their pedestal of power for nothing, but to establish his own dictatorship on Azeroth."
— "How do you know this?"
— "And is that the most important thing that interested you out of everything I said?"
— "Yes..." came a quick, unconscious answer, but a moment later Arthas changed his mind. — "No! What is this 'alliance with the elves'?"
— "Now that is the right question. Why do you think Dalaran, which is a minion of Quel'Thalas, arrived so quickly to help the islanders out of the goodness of its heart?" the voice once again demonstrated its awareness of current affairs. — "The elves need soldiers capable of dying on their shores."
At that moment, Arthas, already beginning to get lost in the intricacies of the truth, caught onto the last sentence, which seemed to him to contradict the facts.
— "Then why did they save the Kul Tirans? Proudmoore led his troops to Stormwind, not to Quel'Thalas, and the elves actually allowed him to do it!"
— "Of course, Azshara needs those who will die for her glory, but even more she needs those who will kill. That is why, instead of meat, the elves took almost all the Water Elementals for themselves, not to mention the Dalaranians themselves, leaving you one-on-one with N'Zoth's magic."
— "..."
Feeling the weakness, the Nathrezim increased the pressure.
— "I don't understand why you're bothering. I see no difference for you humans: whether you are under the rule of N'Zoth or Azshara. Do you think an elven victory will change anything in your subordinate position? Elves are immortal. Your race will never be able to take independent steps; you are doomed to settle for the scraps from the elven table."
The seeds of discord fell on fertile soil, which had been well-prepared over the past year. Arthas gritted his teeth.
— "Give me power, and I will change everything!"
— "Alone?" the voice was mocking. — "Even with my power, you cannot be in all places at once."
— "All of Lordaeron will follow me!"
— "They will not. You are merely a prince, and your father is afraid to sneeze without Azshara's knowledge. And don't say it isn't so—it's known even to you Lordaeronians yourselves."
— "I can persuade him!"
— "You are not strong in eloquence... but let it be so—I already told you that a mob of ordinary soldiers can oppose nothing to mages, which the elves all are. So you cannot do without allies."
— "Dalaran..."
But the "sword" didn't let him finish.
— "Dalaran has been eating handouts from the hands of Azshara and her lackeys for too long. Even your former girlfriend has been with them for a long time," the Nathrezim had prepared well and knew all the sore spots of the mortal being recruited, so he immediately began to press them all at once: — "And even your mentor is busy sending reinforcements to Quel'Thalas, diminishing the strength of your order, and, likely as not, will soon head to the front line himself, sacrificing himself for the sake of the long-eared hypocrites..."
— "And who, in your opinion, can become an ally to humans?" Gloomy and having calmed his anger with difficulty, Arthas could think of nothing better than to ask the "cursed" artifact a question.
— "As they say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. N'Zoth and Azshara have another opponent."
— "The dragons?" the prince showed his knowledge on the matter.
— "Hm... and the dragons too," Mephistroth was forced to admit the obvious. — "But the Aspects are difficult to negotiate with—they aren't even against everyone; they are simply for themselves and no one else. And they have no allies—they aren't even friends among themselves. So I was talking about the Burning Legion."
— "Demons?" Arthas even snorted, hearing the mention of the elven bogeyman.
— "Let it be known to you, demons are far from the whole Legion. And in general—the sentient beings leading it have, shall we say, an indirect relationship to demons."
— "A poisonous mushroom is no better than a toadstool. The Legion, the elves, N'Zoth—it's all the same."
— "Oh, my young, trusting friend! Has life not taught you not to trust elves and especially their propaganda? What do you even know about demons? Well, besides the fact that they are 'bad'?" For a moment, the insinuating tone gave way to sarcasm, though strictly measured and controlled—Mephistroth didn't want the future raw material to think he was being mocked.
— "They want to destroy Azeroth."
— "The dragons say the same about the elves, and the elves about N'Zoth. And what's most interesting—if the Aspects, Azshara, N'Zoth, or Sargeras decided to destroy Azeroth, they would have done it long ago—they have plenty of opportunities for it."
— "And what is the Legion's goal, in your opinion? Peace on earth?" Despite the fact that Arthas had been fairly easily convinced that the elves were enemies, he still viewed demons as allies with healthy skepticism.
"Even you don't have such a goal, to say nothing of the Fallen Titan. No, it's both simpler and more complex at the same time—The Force. Sargeras, just like you, thirsts for power, and Azeroth is practically overflowing with it. But overall, that's a fairly common goal for all sides of the starting war. Also, the Legion wants revenge. Azshara struck a deal with the Dark Titan—Knowledge in exchange for Power—but after getting what she wanted, the elf refused to pay the bills. She cheated him... Sargeras tried, as wild as it sounds, to take the Power by force, but he didn't succeed—the mad elves, unwilling to give up what was promised, nearly destroyed all of Azeroth, which, mark my words, did not suit Sargeras—after all, he wanted to take it, not destroy it, and the Titan retreated, taking a wait-and-see position. Perhaps you've heard of the Sundering of the once-unified continent that happened ten thousand years ago? If so—it occurred precisely as a result of these events..."
"What Power specifically are we talking about? What does Sargeras want to obtain?"
It wasn't that Arthas, while going for the sword, expected to receive a history lesson, but information was never superfluous, especially such... reliable information. Paladin intuition told the prince that his interlocutor was being as open as possible and was not stingy with details. The plan of the third most powerful Nathrezim, based on the truth, was working...
"The Well, of course. The one the elves hid from all of Azeroth in Quel'Thalas. But to you humans, it's neither here nor there—the power of the whole world, used for the benefit of only one race, and when Sargeras deals with the elves, the Well will merely change owners—you humans still won't be able to use it like those same elves, from whom you have lagged behind in development by several millennia, thanks to them."
The prince involuntarily frowned. Mephistroth, reading Arthas if not like an open book then something close to it, understood that the prince was now gripped by proverbial human greed. Greed, in general, was characteristic of any sentient beings, not just mortals, which is why the Nathrezim, who had lived for thousands of millennia, knew better than anyone how to direct the power of this feeling into a more constructive and necessary channel for him.
"Forget about that wretched fountain—what's the use in regretting something that neither you nor your closest descendants in the hundredth generation will be able to use? Better think about the Knowledge that will go to the victors after the victory over the elves. And it will go to the allies of the Legion... Think for yourself—why would Sargeras need Knowledge that he himself gave to these traitors? It doesn't work that way with knowledge; it's not like artifacts that, after being transferred, decrease in one place and increase in another—wisdom only multiplies, remaining with both sides. I understand you want everything at once, but let's be reasonable—you need the Legion more than it needs you, and victory over the elves will have to be paid for. Besides, the distribution of trophies turns out much fairer if it's based on the shares invested by each participant of the alliance, and believe me, the capabilities of such a unique union as the Burning Legion, whose history spans fifty millennia and which is led by an immortal Titan, are incommensurate with a kingdom—and only one of the seven on Azeroth at that—which can boast barely three thousand years of existence, I would even say—survival under the close control of the elves."
The insinuating intonations of the demonic voice softly enveloped the consciousness of the Lordaeronian prince, who was unversed in intrigue, covering him layer by layer with a thin veil of omissions and correctly placed accents, thereby reducing his critical perception. Mephistroth didn't want any slip-ups, so he strove not out of fear of failure, but for the chance to receive a choice piece of the Azerothian pie from the hands of the lords or, if Chaos willed it, Sargeras himself during the division of spoils. Meanwhile, Arthas had matured enough to discuss the details of the future alliance.
"Do you have any specific proposals, or did you just bring up the Legion for no reason?"
"As you have probably already guessed, the sword before you was created by the Legion and can endow an ally of the creators with great power. In return, all that is required is to unite against one specific enemy."
"You said yourself that the soldiers of Lordaeron are worth nothing on the battlefield compared to elven mages."
"If the soldiers were alone—that would be true, but you have priests and paladins, and you will also have the support of the sword and, most importantly—allies who will provide the necessary magical cover. When the Legion's army marches through your lands toward the elven borders, it will be very important in what capacity your people act—as a meat buffer for the elves, who treat you like pet monkeys, or as allies of the Legion, in which a worthy place will be found for everyone with potential, and you, I see, possess it in full measure. Decide, young prince, the future of your people is in your hands."
Need it be said that Arthas Menethil agreed? Vanity, the desire to prove himself, and hatred for the "rich neighbor"—all this and much more played their part in the young prince's choice of sides. To his credit, it should be noted that the boy subconsciously understood that if he made a different choice, neither he nor his companions would ever return to Lordaeron. And while he didn't really care about the common soldiers, the fate of the girl whose invisible support he felt—as Arthas just realized—from the very beginning of the dialogue, concerned him greatly... which, strictly speaking, was also taken into account when developing the operation.
It was fundamental for the Nathrezim to obtain voluntary consent from Arthas, for the example of Ner'zhul showed that forced cooperation was nowhere near as effective as it could be. And now the old orc required constant monitoring so that he wouldn't pull some stunt at the most inopportune moment. That was why he, Mephistroth, personally conducted the conversation with Arthas, not entrusting this important matter to his "colleagues," and certainly not to the Lich King.
Finally, the prince made up his mind, and the sword, bearing the name Frostmourne, easily left the block, which, along with the pedestal, served purely decorative functions in the scene that had just been played out like clockwork. In addition to his own Holy light and Dayana's rainbow "support," the prince was enveloped in a frosty haze. A coldness settled in his blue eyes, which ordinary people began to perceive as a self-confidence so firm it bordered on cruelty. However, decisive leaders always appealed to the people more than kings who lacked self-assurance.
The former owner of the blade lost control over it, and he could not have liked that. But what could the old orc do, locked in magical armor, encased in ice, and controlled by demons? Ner'zhul's plan had not worked; the Nathrezim had outwitted him: he had been deprived of his channel of influence over the Legion's new toy.
Mephistroth, positioned in invisibility in the darkest corner, smirked deviously. "How I adore such moments! It's a pity such a trick won't work with Nathrezim—for some reason, over millennia of backroom intrigue, my brethren have forgotten how to take someone at their word..."
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Northrend, Storm Peaks.
It seemed the wind here, in the Temple of Storms located on the highest peak of Northrend, never subsided for a second. But the creation of the Titans, who had occupied this strategic spot many, many years ago, didn't care about the weather—he had long since grown accustomed to it. The Titanid Thorim, whom some ignorant fools called a titan (at least they used a lowercase letter), was, as usual, not in a good mood. He sat on a stone throne, staring blindly into the distance. A grimace of grief and disappointment was frozen on his face. And no wonder—his wife had been killed, he had been tricked into leaving Ulduar, a post in which the Pantheon had placed him... And that was his calling! And even though he, like all his brethren, was a guardian of Azeroth, his primary duty consisted of guarding the prison of the Old God—Yogg-Saron. Now he didn't even know what was happening in Ulduar; it might be that the prisoner had escaped or, worse, been released by the traitor Loken, which meant he had failed and was disgraced for the rest of his immortal life...
Thorim sighed. What was the use in meaningless worries and doubts? At this rate, he would talk himself into something truly terrible... for example, the death of the Pantheon—why else would they be silent and not respond to his calls? The Titanid shook his head, driving away the dangerous and yet persistent thought of the Creators' death. No, he would not become like Loken! Even if it was currently impossible for him to fulfill his main task, he did not cease to be one of the defenders of Azeroth. And, like a good guardian, Thorim could not sit idle and immediately found himself an alternative goal, and not a fictitious one, but a true "guardian's" mission. Protecting the concentration of the power of the air element was a worthy mission; after all, the quintessence of the power of Al'Akir, Neptulon, Therazane, and Ragnaros were not things that should be lying around unattended. True, (and Thorim could admit it honestly to himself) he was certain that if the traitor-Loken hadn't driven him out of Ulduar, he wouldn't even have remembered the hearts of the elemental lords, which the Titans had long ago taken by right of the victor from their owners.
And now Thorim was stuck at the top of the Temple of Storms, where the center of power of one of the four elements was located. Day after day, his only companion was the wind... not counting the val'kyr and Vrykul women who sometimes brightened his loneliness. Well, what kind of conversationalists were they? But the situation was bound to change soon—a mortal creature of flesh and blood had paid a visit to the highest peak of the Storm Peaks. Whether this visit was for better or for worse, the coming conversation would show.
On the edge of the cliff, directly opposite the Titanid's throne, a griffon landed. The rider didn't even have time to take two steps toward the heir of the Titans' will before the latter moved, changing his posture, and a Voice rang out over the frozen peak, instinctively instilling awe in anyone whose will had not been tempered by hundreds of years of life... The guest, by the way, could not boast of such a thing and shuddered from the unexpectedness.
"What have you come for, human?" Thorim said, showing some familiarity with the race of the uninvited guest.
"I greet the famous guardian Thorim," the older man bowed, hiding his confusion. He had a thick beard and mustache and was dressed in a robe that many residents of the eastern continent would confidently identify as the uniform of the Dalaran mages, belonging to the very top of the hierarchical chain—the members of the Council of Six.
"No need for flattery, mortal. Speak, why have you come?"
A short pause followed, and the newcomer, gathering his thoughts, delivered a clearly pre-prepared speech:
"I am authorized to offer assistance in returning Ulduar to your control. As well as an alliance against Yogg-Saron."
Now the guardian took a pause, though it also didn't last long.
"On whose behalf do you propose an alliance?"
"My master would prefer to remain unnamed. He asks for nothing in return; Yogg-Saron is his enemy as well, therefore..."
"I refuse," Thorim cut off the representative of the secretive party. "If that is all, then leave, human."
"But..."
"Leave!" thunder rumbled in the vicinity, and lightning settled in the Titanid's eyes.
Fortunately for him, the negotiator-mage heeded the voice of reason and, bowing silently, climbed onto the griffon and departed. Thorim watched the mount disappear over the edge of the cliff with a grim gaze and, suddenly rising, walked to the center of the platform, looking around.
"I knew it," in the Titanid's voice, despite the literally thundering notes, there was a clear trace of dark satisfaction.
Thorim was gripped by that very feeling when you turn out to be right in your assumptions, even if they predicted something bad. Space began to warp, as if someone were trying to force their way through the protection established by the guardian. And what a coincidence—it was happening exactly where the stranger who hadn't introduced himself had stood a couple of minutes ago. Obviously, having failed to obtain the center of the air element through cunning, the enemy had moved to "negotiations" more traditional for Azeroth. And Thorim understood as soon as he suspected deception that the target was precisely the object he was guarding. By the way, the latter had happened at the very beginning: the mere fact of a human's visit hinted at such a thing... What could he do—after millennia of loneliness spent after Loken's betrayal, Thorim had become "a little bit" paranoid.
"Finally, a battle! I will be able to fulfill my destiny..." he stopped himself.
A long time ago, sitting on a similar throne in Ulduar, he also thought he could fulfill his duty, but he was wrong. The current situation evoked an elusive resemblance to past events.
"This will not happen again!" the guardian clenched his fists and headed for the throne, paying no attention to the transition arch that had begun to form. "If I'm going to be paranoid, I'll be paranoid to the end..."
When, a minute later, the not-so-large patch at the top of the peak became crowded with elite warriors led by a creature that once bore the name Cenarius, Thorim was no longer there. Taking it as an axiom that the enemy was not an idiot to attack without hope of success, he decided to retreat, not even suspecting that by doing so he would significantly set fire to the backside of the fellow who had sent his minions to obtain the center of Air...
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Is'Ney-Azshari, Royal Palace.
A palm applied to the face with force acquires a much more multifaceted meaning than simple despair, bewilderment, indignation, and other emotions associated with this world-famous gesture, if both the hand and the face belong to a powerful person in whose will lies the ability to dispose of others' fates. And the effect of this gesture becomes truly transcendent when performed by a very specific individual famous for her restraint and composure.
Queen Azshara deigned to listen to the report of the head of the intelligence corps, Sylvanas Windrunner, while her hand had not left its place on her face practically since the very beginning of the report on the events in Kalimdor.
"I understand," said the "young" person on the throne, finally returning her hand to the armrest. "The dragons flew in and, as usual, fouled everything up, and not in any metaphorical sense. And now all our developments regarding Nordrassil are useless to anyone, which means the priceless time spent on research has been wasted instead of bringing benefit, and what's more—we now have to deal with tsunamis and a magical storm... Though, you know what: find Naelis for me—she should be in the north wing. The lizards' pranks should be handled by lizards. We'll send her to the red ones, and let that old biddy Alexstrasza shake off her fat and eliminate the consequences of her blue brother's meddling."
The blonde girl in leather armor and a green cloak did not comment on her superior's resolution, but she was in no hurry to carry out the assignment either—she had one more piece of news in reserve.
"My queen, there is something else. Contact has been lost with the expedition beyond the Dark Portal. I have sent scouts, but so far no word has been received from them."
Azshara frowned, assessing the bad news, and the fact that it was exactly that left no doubt in her mind.
"Your sister is in the leadership of the expeditionary corps, isn't she?" the queen asked suddenly and, seeing the jaw muscles twitch on her subject's face, did not wait for an answer, offering reassurance: "Don't worry needlessly. There is always a chance for the best until you see the body with your own eyes, and even then, sometimes that's not an indicator—you of all people know that."
Sylvanas, as a person entrusted with some confidence, was aware of the hero of the War of the Ancients who had risen from oblivion, so she nodded gratefully, and the seal of anxiety eating away at the archer, famous in narrow circles, dissipated.
"Actually, I don't like this one bit," Azshara gave the received news more close attention and shared her conclusions. "While in matters of concern for the life of a loved one one must always hope for the best, with matters concerning state security, one should act in the exact opposite way—assume the worst-case scenario, and therefore..."
The grey eyes of the intelligence chief widened, not from the realization that the second most important news had suddenly become the first due to its uncertainty, but from what this would lead to. And Sylvanas was one hundred percent right in the assumptions that flashed through her head in an instant.
"I declare a state of high alert for a Legion attack! General assembly in the throne room in half an hour," Azshara's voice acquired a surround-sound quality: thanks to magic, the announcement rang out through the entire palace.
"Now, while you have time, give the order for increased vigilance for the Dark Portal monitoring post. And have them check in every five minutes."
Sylvanas nodded and this time hurried to carry out the order with all the speed possible for a trained scout, so a second later she was no longer in the hall.
"Just let the beasts try to poke their heads into Azeroth and they'll immediately get acquainted with all our anti-demonic invasion developments from the last ten thousand years! Though, maybe I should just blow up the portal right away?" the queen wondered, not noticing how the tension gripping her manifested as a drumroll of her fingers on the armrest. "No, I must give the expedition a chance. But as soon as the first demon steps onto Azeroth, my hand will not waver to close this bolt-hole leading to the ass-end of the world—I don't want my home to become the same..."
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Lordaeron.
A standard trio of riders patrolled along the coast of the Tirisfal Glades, prudently not approaching the shore itself—they had not only heard of sea monsters but had already managed to participate in killing them.
"Look, Adam, ice floes are floating toward the shore... Strange."
The man his comrade addressed stood up in his stirrups, placed his palm to his forehead to shield himself from the sun, looked closely, and admitted his partner was right:
"True enough—ice floes... And so many of them! Do you think a bunch of ice floes floating to the shore in the middle of summer and across the current at that—does that fall under that list of suspicious things the lieutenant ordered us to report when this all started?"
It was a rhetorical question, as while examining the northern guests, Corporal Adam was already fumbling inside his tunic for a communication amulet with his other hand, having let go of the reins. The soldier even managed to pull it out, but he didn't get to use it: a Nathrezim appearing nearby crossed out the entire brave trio of patrollers with a single wave of his hand.
Of course, the demon understood it was only a matter of time before the locals learned of their arrival. However, the commanders of the Scourge wished to keep their enemies in the dark as long as possible, and therefore they were almost personally clearing the area of unnecessary witnesses to their "visit."
Meanwhile, the icebergs began to break apart, even though they were still about a hundred meters from the shore—they couldn't have sailed to the beach anyway because of their height, so the Nathrezim sensibly began to free their Army of Undead from the shackles of ice. And so, after a few minutes, the first undead, despite its armor, climbed out of the water onto the shore, followed by more and more. At some point, an Abomination appeared, and that became the trigger: the entire coastline in the visible area turned into a visual aid for necromancy. The apotheosis of the bacchanalia of Death was a huge water hump that swelled in place of one of the icebergs. From it, like a chick from a shell, a bone dragon emerged into freedom with a loud splash. The first... out of a hundred. A "fun" pastime awaited the residents of the outskirts, but not for long.
Not all of those leading the invasion were occupied with such Sargeras-pleasing tasks as clearing witnesses and unloading troops. Several Liches under the direction of Nathrezim were setting up cloaking barriers and preparing small portals: pulling in a thousand or two demons was never superfluous. But the Demon Lord named Tichondrius very much wanted to know how things stood with the second, almost key point of the plan.
"Well?"
"Silence, master. They have not yet arrived on Azeroth," replied a Lich of dubious appearance and non-obvious intelligence to the Nathrezim, yet one who was toiling over an important communication sphere.
"I know without your help what the silence of the artifact means, fool! Keep calling. I need contact with Lord Archimonde."
"I hear and obey, master."
While the former orc-shaman fumbled with the sphere, Anetheron approached the demon with red wings and immediately did not hesitate to inquire about the reason for the delay:
"Do we have problems, brother?"
"Nothing that wasn't foreseen in the plans," Tichondrius turned to him. "The Lord is delayed. Perhaps the journey to the portal took him more time, or we were mistaken in our calculations."
"Or he ran into problems," the second Nathrezim in the military hierarchy reasonably suggested.
"More likely, he organized them for someone else."
The demons exchanged knowing grins: it was hard to argue with the overwhelming magical power of one of the fallen Titan's inner circle.
"In any case, we will not deviate from the plan. Several detachments are dealing with the western settlements, a couple with the monastery, and the main forces are heading to Lordaeron. Will the landing finish on time?"
"Yes, no problems. Everything is as expected—another half hour, and all troops will be ready."
"Then we move out immediately. Oh, right—remind Mephistroth to finish his business, whatever he's doing there," the contemptuous intonations regarding their brother, who still held third place in the unspoken ranking of Nathrezim, were heard quite clearly in Tichondrius's voice.
"Fine."
It was precisely this moment that the Nathrezim they were just talking about chose for his appearance.
"We no longer need to go to Lordaeron, and it would be good to recall the other detachments as well."
Silence fell; Tichondrius thought intensely, squinting at the subordinate who had arrived, and Anetheron was not far behind him. Finally, realizing that the Nathrezim dressed in blue colors considered this the moment of his triumph and therefore clearly wouldn't explain anything until specifically asked, Tichondrius swallowed his pride—they, the Nathrezim, knew how to admit defeat, besides, this was just a turn in a long game played for the attention of the Lords—and asked directly, not forgetting to sting the opponent who seemed to have been written off but had nevertheless returned to the table with an unknown set of cards:
"Why do we not need to go to Lordaeron and thereby violate the plan approved by Lords Archimonde and Kil'jaeden?"
"Because Lordaeron is now our ally and will help us get rid of the elves with all its might," Mephistroth stated and continued to develop the thought: "Turning experienced soldiers into lower undead is a senseless waste of resources and a waste of precious time. I think it would be better if we head to Dalaran or straight to Stratholme, after first coordinating this with the Lord."
Continuing to thoughtfully study the brother who had brought the unexpected news, the commander of the Scourge demon finally asked, having formulated the next question:
"On what are your assurances of Lordaeron's allied relations based?"
"The young prince of this kingdom voluntarily accepted Frostmourne and, no more than ten minutes ago, personally used it to take off the head of his king-father, calling him a traitor when he didn't agree with the proposal to defect to the side of the Legion and wanted to tell everything to the elven ambassador. The latter, by the way, was also caught. So Azshara doesn't know yet about the small changes on the political front, nor, I assume," he looked around at the landed undead, "about our presence here."
"And everyone supported the prince?" Anetheron doubted.
"With my help, the prince ascended the throne quietly, without provoking public outcry with the public death of the former king. No one knows about the latter's death except the prince for now, so I consider everything under control. I left a couple of Nathrezim and an embedded agent near him for protection—they will look after the future Lich King."
"Well, if that's the case, you've just minimized the losses from the failure of your last mission quite well, Mephistroth. Lordaeron may not be Dalaran, but it's at least something."
These words didn't even pass for praise by a long shot, but Mephistroth smiled quite benignly, perfectly understanding that his competitors had no choice but to put a good face on a bad game. Meanwhile, Tichondrius continued:
"However, we have a small problem—Lord Archimonde is not answering yet; apparently, he's falling behind schedule."
The trio of main Nathrezim fell silent, considering the situation. It is unknown what decision they would have reached, but it was at this moment, in accordance with the genre, that the Lich conjuring over the long-distance communication sphere spoke up.
"Lord Archimonde is on the line, masters."
Before the Nathrezim could even turn toward the undead who had spoken, a heavy aura pressed down on them, which, thanks to the distance separating them, was only an echo of that monstrous power the fallen Eredar had accumulated over tens of thousands of years of his life.
"Tichondrius, what about the Plan? I have a problem—the elves mined the Portal, and your blockheads managed to miss it. Good thing they didn't mess up the cloaking, and we managed to transfer part of the troops before the elven scouts suspected something was wrong. But about two-thirds remained cut off on the dying Draenor. If they even survived after the destruction of the Portal—I managed to direct the blast pulse toward Draenor."
Archimonde was clearly not in a good mood and, apparently, had already appointed the Nathrezim as the ones to blame, so the good news came at just the right time (Tichondrius even mentally thanked his brother, writing off his debt for Mal'Ganis). Mephistroth also perfectly understood the situation, so his face became even more satisfied, although it seemed his grin could not physically stretch any further.
"My lord, we have good news..."
***
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