Scourge - Beginnings (Patreon)

Even within the confines of the Palace of Lordaeron, looking out over the capital city from the royal balcony, Harris could hear the cheers that filled the air. All down the grand avenue men, women, and children waited; every last one rejoicing over the return of their prince. The one who had ended the undead menace and defeated the Scourge, returning the bodies of loved ones to their deserved rest.

"It is time." King Terenas said as bells began to toll, signalling the prince's passage through the inner wall of the city. The old king turned to Harris and met his gaze. "Drenden, old friend, know this: I will not tolerate whatever sorcerous plans you have for my son."

Harris held a hand over his chest and bowed. "As you wish, King Terenas." He said deferentially. The time for arguing with the king over the precautions for Prince Arthas' return had passed and there was no point in forcing the issue now. It had been made clear over recent months how low the Kirin Tor's star had fallen in the eyes of Lordaeron.

That one of their own, Kel'Thuzad, had been one of the actors who distributed the plague was only one part of that tarnishing; it mattered little that he had been banished, only that he had been a wizard.

If they had found a cure, if they had contained the plague, if they had worked harder, if they had supported the prince in his time of need... if, if, if. The rumours and whispers at court were endless, and all that the people of the land saw and felt was the burning of loved ones who would never rest in a grave sanctified by the light. Their efforts seen as fruitless and for nought.

And then, there was Calia.

"Good." The King said, turning swiftly and marching into the palace.

Orders were given, servants rushing to obey, soldiers standing at attention, the drawbridge to the palace lowered, and the guards of the throne room ready for the prince's arrival. King Terenas slowly sat upon the throne of Lordaeron, while Harris was granted a place of honour to the left of the dais which raised the throne above petitioners. One of the Silver Hand, Maxwell Tyrosus, stood on the right; one of the few concessions the king had granted for his protection.

The King's Guard lined the walls, good men and fine soldiers, but they were hardly the forces that had been proposed to defend this meeting. Nor did the crossbowmen that lurked in the upper balconies, out of sight, make up for the dearth of other mages, paladins, or priests in attendance.

Harris still didn't know if he believed the prophecy that Modera had been given, that was being investigated and examined so carefully by his fellows back in Dalaran, now that the girl had been found at last.

He would have wished to meet her himself, to test her resolve and beliefs, and see if she was one of those few diviners worth consideration. Like Modera was.

But he could not, the king scarcely tolerated his presence here today. If he had left his old friend may have refused to allow him to return – much as he had ordered Lord Uther's absence, citing the betrayal the paladin had done to the prince at Stratholme. If King Terenas had gone to the city to witness it for himself, like Harris had, he may not have thought that way.

The stink of burning bodies still seemed to linger in his clothes, despite those he had worn being burned to ash in an attempt to cleanse the horror of what he had witnessed.

With a great crash, the grand doors to the throne room slammed open, chains rattling and the air shaking from the force. The prince was here.

Hooded in black with silver steel and stark white fur as the only highlight, the prince looked nothing like he once had. Gone was the gold and blue of the Alliance, gone was the great hammer he had been gifted by Lord Uther, gone was the shield and sigil of Lordaeron, and gone was the bright blonde hair he once wore openly with pride.

And as he kneeled, a great and menacing icy blade was unsheathed, placed on the floor in submission towards his father. Harris felt some relief at the sight, seeing the prince show his father respect and filial piety, but the shifting movements of the prince's companions worried him.

"Ah, my son," King Terenas said, rising from his throne, "I knew you would be victorious. Your triumph has stirred the hearts of our people, banished the vile Scourge from our lands, and brought peace to Lordaeron once again."

The prince raised his head over the hilt of his blade, pulling back his hood and revealing the silver-white hair beneath. "I only did what I must, Father." He said, his voice dark and grim. "All that I did, I would do again, for the sake of my people."

King Terenas smiled sadly, stepping down the dais slowly. "The burdens of war were something I had hoped you would never have to bear, but know this: Neither I nor Lordaeron blame you for your actions. The curse that fell upon our land was one that you fought valiantly, with all the conviction you could muster, even at great cost to yourself."

Tensing as the king approached his son, Harris readied his magic to leap to His Majesty's defence, fire bristling under his skin and a blink prepared to separate the pair at the slightest hint of aggression.

He had been given the task of guarding the king by the council and, his doubts as to the truth of the prophecies or not, he would fulfil that duty.

"It was nothing, Father." Prince Arthas intoned emptily.

"Rise, my son. Let me see you again at last." King Terenas said, and Prince Arthas stood.

He rose with his blade, holding it high. Harris' hand raised the word to activate his magic on his lips–

And the prince sheathed that grim and cold blade, the cold mist that wafted from it fading away slowly as the cloaked and steel-clad figure of the prince stood tall over his father.

Unaware of Harris' near action, King Terenas reached up with a hand to brush aside the white hair that obscured his son's face. "You have suffered more than I could imagine. Come! Let us be done with this cold ceremony!" The king turned on the spot, his royal cloak flowing behind him. "Your rooms are ready for you, Arthas. Take the time to rest after your long journey. We can speak this eve of what has occurred, what must be done. And," his face fell, "of the tragedy that has befallen our family."

There was a faint glimmer of life in the prince's eyes. "Calia?" He asked.

"She was sent to Southshore, far from the Scourge, to be with her husband. But she and Lianne are missing and her husband murdered by the vile orcs." King Terenas shook with fury. "Preying upon our distraction they sacked the town and stole the fleet, for what nefarious purpose none have yet learned."

Harris stood stoically under the king's accusative gaze. It had been at his suggestion that Calia chose to go south, to visit her husband and daughter far from the danger of the Scourge. A place of safety in the eyes of the Kirin Tor.

King Terenas did not know, not truly, but he suspected. And that was enough.

"I see." Prince Arthas said coldly. "Calia... my sister..."

"Have hope, my son." The King placed his hand upon the spiked pauldrons the prince wore. "The townsfolk were spared and she may yet live. Now, off you with! To your rooms, boy." Smiling widely, the king stepped back. "I fear your long campaign has impressed upon your armour the cloying scent of the Scourge. Rest and restore yourself and we shall speak soon."

The two guards that had followed the prince stood at attention, slamming the butts of their spears into the ground.

"As you wish, Father." Prince Arthas said, a wry smirk forming on his lips for a moment before vanishing.

King Terenas watched with a faint smile as the prince retreated into the depths of the palace, a smile that only faded slightly after he was gone. "Drenden, if you would walk with me. Men, see to your duties – Maxwell, you are no longer needed. The Silver Hand has my thanks for your presence here today."

"It is an honour, sire." Maxwell said with a short bow. "I will retire for the eve and depart come morning. Lord Uther will be glad to hear of the prince's good health."

"Yes, I am sure." The king waved him away, before walking down the halls of the palace. Drenden didn't hesitate to follow, and soon they were out of earshot of those who had stood guard in the throne room. "Your fears were unfounded, old friend."

"And few are more glad of that than I." Harris replied softly; he still felt unease from what he had seen of Arthas, but he was not the patricidal monster the prophecy had claimed. "He has changed, Terenas. Changed greatly, but I saw a flicker of him still there when you spoke of Calia."

The king didn't slow in his walk, their path leading them up onto the high walled path around the outer gardens where one could find a view out across the entire city – or Lordamere Lake in the south. Their walk, trailed by two of the King's Guard, ended its silence overlooking the great expanse of the lake.

Far in the south, visible from the high towers of the palace, one could see the very pinnacle of the Violet Hold if they had keen eyes or magic with which to draw the horizon closer.

"Somewhere out there is my other child, my dear daughter. My granddaughter." King Terenas said, his wrinkled hands pressing against the cold stone of the crenellations. "Your fears of my son may have sent her to her death."

"She will be found, old friend."

"Yes. Yes she will." The king turned, frowning heavily as he met Harris' eyes. "Archmage Drenden of the Kirin Tor, I task you, as the leader of the Alliance, with the recovery of my daughter. If she yet lives she is bereft of protection, lost and alone in her grief. Find her and bring her home to me." His eyes narrowed. "In the spirit of our friendship, old friend, I give you this chance to earn my forgiveness."

Harris was too practised to reel back in shock, but he felt it all the same. The buried anger the king felt, expressed in but two words. "I have been tasked with–"

"I care not." King Terenas cut through the air with his hand. "I have no reason to indulge your fantasies any longer. Your mad prophet. A girl, a child, you have not yet even found after you cast her out for her madness."

"Terenas, Your Majesty, we have found her. My fellows have been questioning her for some time now." Harris bowed his head, mind roiling. Modera had sent word of the girl's accuracy in her accounts of the Scourge's forces, even the events that pertained to Jaina's report. And yet, she was wrong. "I will see that Calia is found, word will be sent to Dalaran at once and all–"

"No." King Terenas said, dismissing him as he turned and began walking away. "If you wish for me to listen to your prophet you may bring her to me along with my daughter. And I mean you, Drenden." He pulled his cloak close around himself against the chill wind. "You have become like all the others. Revelling in secrecy and mystery, acting on whims and hearsay even when it goes against all decency. Leave by the morrow. I wish to see no more of you."

-oOoOo-

For what felt like hours Harris stared out across the Lordamere Lake, wondering how they had come so close to breaking the unity of the Alliance on the whims of a girl. It was incredulous, almost humorous, that the girl expelled for sowing disunity amongst members of the Alliance on behalf of the arrogant King Greymane had been recalled only to do more of the same.

All Harris could do to mend ties, to bring the Alliance back to what it should be – to restore the good name of the Kirin Tor – was to find and rescue Princess Calia Menethil and little Lianne. Two people whose fate he was responsible for.

As bells started tolling again, surely for some grand speech by the royals of Lordaeron, Harris began to return to his quarters. One of the towers of the palace modelled on those of Dalaran, which had for a thousand years stood as the home of the Emissary of the Kirin Tor. A tie that had been unbroken in an age. But, as he drew closer, there was something amiss.

Beyond the great monument of the palace, across the great expanse of the capital of Lordaeron, there was red.

Flames licked at the sky while bells screamed of danger. Starting to run Harris felt a panic rise – had he missed something? The prophecy had concerned the throne room, the prince slaying his father on the spot. That was the clarification of events that he had been sent! It had been proven wrong.

With magical blinks Harris reached the battlements overlooking the city. Many of the grand houses of the city were burning, the masses of people screaming in fear and fleeing, bolts of magic loosed in the throng with devastating effect. "No..." He whispered, watching as the soldiers of Lordaeron rallied, forming ranks, to protect the citizens as they fled – a dark shadow passed overhead and he threw himself to the ground.

A screech of dismay pierced the air as a winged monstrosity with fierce claws spun around on its flight, intent on claiming him on its second pass.

"No." He hissed, pushing himself to his feet and pulling up the flames of his anger. This should never have happened! "No, you shall not claim me, beast!"

All it took was a single spell, a bolt of fire forming in an outstretched hand and tracking the monstrosity as it attempted to evade. Upon impact the bolt exploded, tearing the creature apart and raining burning gore onto the ground below.

"Fresh meat?" A gurgling voice called up from below.

Peering down Harris saw a mass of corpses, men in armour and bearing crossbows, thrown to the ground below. Not many, a patrol at most. But there were dozens upon dozens of shambling ghouls that feasted upon their flesh.

In the blink of an eye Harris was amongst them, his raised arms thrown out to the sides – and a wave of flame following them. There were cries of fury from the undead, as close as they could feel to pain, as they burned. The one straggler that survived was dispatched with a summary flick of a hand.

"She wasn't wrong." Harris said, looking up into the skies where a swarm of the winged monsters flew. "But we weren't the only ones to act as circumstances changed."

Unguarded and unsuspecting, without an archmage or paladin present to offer resistance, the prince could have approached and killed his father with impunity. The King's Guard would not have been able to act in time to save him.

This wasn't a stupid enemy they were fighting. It was a planned invasion of their lands. And they had been played for fools.

More ghouls appeared on the battlements, peering down at him. "Raargh." One voiced, any intelligibility destroyed by its shattered jaw. It was set aflame before its fellows leapt, but there were more coming.

And his display of magic had attracted attention – the monstrosities above were circling and diving. Gargoyles, that was what the girl had described the Scourge fliers as. Gargoyles and Frost Wyrms.

"The king." Harris told himself, blasting a ghoul that came too close. It scrabbled away and tried to put the fire out, but only succeeded in setting its fellows and the garden aflame. "I have to reach the king!"

With another blink, he was away, sprinting into the corridors of the palace. Bodies law strewn across the floor, more undead than servants, but there were so many of both. The bells still tolled, but some had gone silent. The city was falling.

Rounding a corner Harris came within inches of being impaled on a blade, his barrier of mana the only thing preventing the knight's blade from striking him.

"Soldier! Report!" He barked, wasting no time in taking command. The men were clearly haggard, their armour coated in blood – some were only wearing their mail, some only greaves. One poor man bled profusely from his hastily bandaged side as he wore only his smallclothes, but his sword and shield were still held firm.

"Sir!" The knight who had nearly stabbed him snapped to attention. "The crypts that had been opened to the deceased of the city began swarming with undead half an hour ago! They started inside the walls – I – we are being overwhelmed. We're relieved to have you, archmage."

"Understood." There was only one course of action available to them now. "With me, men. I have information that points to this being an assassination attempt on the king. We move to his chambers and secure his escape."

Having a force to watch his back, a wall of metal over which to throw his spells, was a familiar comfort to Harris as they marched through the halls of the palace. More soldiers found them, as did cowering servants. But as they drew closer to the royal chambers there were more bodies, more shambling corpses, more soldiers raised in undeath.

"Arnold..." One of the knights cried, falling to his knees over a brave defender of Lordaeron that had turned his blade against them. "How could the Light let this happen?!"

"Easily, child. All succumb in the end." A twisted mockery of a pleasant voice spoke, only for a twisting ball of shadowy magic to follow it.

Harris didn't hesitate in disrupting the magic the new figure had thrown at them, then returned his own conflagration. "Cultists." He hissed. "Necromancers. Your kind will be ended and this kingdom put to rights! Soldiers of Lordaeron! Of the Alliance! Stand!"

All around them doors had opened, corpses shambling out and penning them into the centre of the corridor.

"Mages. All will join the master in eternal service." The necromancer hissed, his robes burning but not slowing his spellcasting. "It is inevitable!"

"Push forward!" Harris focused on disrupting the necromancer's magic, his spare attention used to throw fire at the corpses overwhelming his defenders. Here and there the undead slipped through, however, falling upon the servants who had joined them with whatever weapons they could muster in the hopes of being protected from harm.

And where those servants fell, more foes rose.

It was a King's Guard that delivered the finishing blow to the necromancer in the end, driving through the press of bodies to strike him down; Harris' own efforts blocked by a literal wall of flesh the coward hid behind.

They were battered and bloodied, a third of their number dead and another third wounded. But they weren't yet spent. "We are nearly there. King Terenas is only minutes away." He said, standing tall despite the deep ache of drawing too much, too quickly, upon his magic.

Ten minutes of rest would be enough to restore him for a time. But that was ten minutes of rest they could not afford. He drew out his emergency potion and downed it in one gulp. It would suffice. It would have to suffice.

The fear held by the men meant he had to lead the way, only the King's Guard standing by his side. All those that followed trailed in his wake out of fear of being left behind without the protection of his magic. One servant, too scared to face any more, threw herself out a window.

A fall she would not survive.

"No." The King's Guard said, seeing one of his fellows impaled by a spear to the wall outside the king's chambers. The same spear that had been held by the prince's guards. "No!"

"Wait!" Cursing to himself, Harris chased after him, reaching the entrance to the king's chambers; seeing inside the fate he knew to be true. Arthas stood almost lazily, the king impaled on his blade, with the crown fallen to his feet. The undead forms of Falric and Marwyn, Arthas' oldest guardians, battled against the struggling and furious defenders of the king.

Six of their bodies lay about the floor, the whole compliment that guarded the royal chambers, and only three more remained – including the one who had come with him.

"Arthas." Harris growled, remembering the spark of life he had seen with Calia's name. "What would your sister say if she saw you now? What would your mother say?"

"Little, as they're dead." He replied emptily. "As you soon will be."

Raising his blade, the corpses of the King's Guard stirred, rising to their feet. They clutched their weapons with none of their skill in life and yet they were dangerous. Stomping his foot, knowing fire would not breach the enchantments upon their armour easily, Harris knocked them back – slammed into the walls as he unleashed a wave of force.

"Keep the undead off of me." He ordered the soldiers still with him; what few were left. Arms raised he pulled on his magic, upon the fires that burned brightest under a noonday sun, the furious rage of the Blackrock Mountain, and condensed it down. "You face an Archmage of the Kirin Tor, Prince. It will not be I who dies this day."

A pyroblast was a work of art. The common practitioners thought it little more than an empowered fireball, but it was far more than that – a fireball burned, a pyroblast seared. The fury of Fire unleashed in a single spell.

Two of his men were cut down, one of the King's Guard succumbing to their wounds, before he was ready. Only intense concentration kept his spell stable as he stepped aside from a rotting corpse that had come from behind, slipping through his meagre defenders. And then, the blast of fire was unleashed to end–

Arthas tore his sword out of his father's chest and held the blade between them, cutting the spell in twain before it left his hands. Something dark and twisting lodging it in Harris' gut and forcing bile into his mouth.

"We'll see, mage." He said, marching forward with an aura of inevitability.

A footman was batted aside with a swipe, his armour ripped to pieces and his life spilling freely onto the floor, after he tried to bar Arthas' path.

A blast of arcane ripped out from Harris' hand, only to be contemptuously ignored as it did little more than set runes upon the prince's pauldrons alight.

A scream tore through the air, fading into a wet gurgle, as the last King's Guard was slain by the prince's attendants.

A change of tactics saw the walls themselves torn apart, the ceiling crumbling and falling atop his foes and stone crashing into the prince who sheltered under his cloak from the barrage. Stalled, but infuriatingly resilient.

Forced to backpedal, Harris kept up his assault. Magic flames condensed and thrown, in pairs and triplets to avoid that damnable sword. Arthas' cloak was set alight, his hair scorched, and his face blackened and burning. Yet still he came on.

Into the corridor, ever retreating, Harris fought down to the last scraps of his mana – downing his second and last emergency potion, knowing that it would cost him greatly to have taken a second too soon. The palace was practically melting around them but surrounded by a green haze the prince stood undisturbed.

"You won't get away, mage." Arthas said emptily, his blade scraping along the floor and freezing the flames with which Harris had sought to melt it away. "None escape the Lich King."

A heavy thudding echoed down the corridors of the palace, and a scream followed from beside him.

"Abomination!"

Throwing up a wall of ice out of desperation, barring Arthas' path, Harris turned to look – A hulking mass of flesh, scarcely fitting in the confines of the palace, trod towards them. A childlike grin of malice on its twisted features as he giggled with glee. Its torso was open, bones and intestines exposed and falling free. Corpses stuffed inside as if from a child's understanding of wanting a full stomach. An Abomination in name and appearance.

"Retreat." Harris whispered, knowing they had lost. Calling on the flame once more, he set about turning the stones to slag. "Retreat! Run! Find a chamber to secure!" He bellowed, the floor buckling under the strain – he had to retreat, falling away from the prince as he approached inexorably. At least now he looked frustrated, hesitating.

The ice cracked behind him. Too soon, too quickly. "I already told you. You aren't getting away." Arthas said, his blade held above Harris' head.

Only a tug on his robes, pulling him aside, saved him. The knight who had struck his barrier, the first survivor he had found, took the blow in his stead. "Get them out!" he roared, slamming his shield into Arthas. "Get them out! Warn the Alliance! For Lordaeron!"

"You won't be forgotten." Harris said, pushing himself to his feet and chasing after the others who were running. They were trapped between Arthas and the abomination – and he heaved, the walls coming apart once more and granting them passage. "This way! This way!"

In the scrabble and rush to run, to flee, through passages made in haste they were soon lost. Many of their scant number picked off, lost to stray undead that sapped Harris' mana to slay. Each blast of fire, each bolt of ice, each surge of arcane a spark of his reserves he could ill afford to spend.

They would not escape through the city. The fires still raged and gargoyles still flew. There was only one chance.

"The throne room!" A servant screamed up ahead, their desperate escape having taken them halfway across the palace. "Bar the doors! Bar the doors!

"No! Wait!"

One poor woman cried, trying to reach the doors with corpses on her tail, and Harris watched her fall. Unable to help her. He had nothing left to give. Delving into his robes he drew out his mana gem, a work of weeks, and drained it dry. A surge of mana coursed through him – enough for a portal. Enough for one portal.

And no more.

"Guard me with your lives and I swear you shall see the morrow." He ordered, lacking the confidence he put into it.

Of the half a hundred men then had found on their way to the king, that they had rallied to defend Lordaeron, there were seven left. Knights and squires and a tearstruck woman who fell to the floor weeping.

This would be their last stand.

His eyes closed he tried, tried desperately, to block out all distractions. The pounding on the doors, the howling in the walls, the silence of the bells; Lordaeron's King had fallen and the city with him. They would live or die depending on his ability to create a portal despite the lingering ache he felt where Arthas’ dark magic had intersected his own.

Wood shattering heralded the entrance of the abomination, its childish demands met with defiance. Each crunch and snap and scream of agony, one of his defenders defeated.

And the end approached with lumbering steps. With the clanking of plated greaves upon stone.

All around him were the dead and the knight of death approached. The Prince of the Damned. Arthas, servant of the Lich King.

"Are you done?"

"No." Harris had run out of time. Staring death in the face he thought of his son, so proud of reaching adept and taking on students of his own. Of how his daughter was studying under him until she was ready for Harris' lessons. He would not turn against them – instead he turned all the power he had left to a new course, tearing all that he was apart as he forced it inward. Not even an iota of his being would survive.

But that was the point.

"Burn in fire, monster."

The last thing he saw was Arthas hiding behind the abomination. Then, the fire took him and all there was, was burning.

-----

And it begins

Thanks to Trestira for beta reading this chapter.