Warcraft: Return of the Lich King - Chapter II

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 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.
    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 tightly 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 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.