Warcraft: Return of the Lich King - Chapter X

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, though he could still make out his horns and wings. 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 city 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.”