User:Peregrine2976/Fanfiction/The Fall of Azjol'Nerub/Part Three

Part III The surface was cold, far colder than Ajar’Zarak was accustomed to, but he knew only the power of the Legacy Stone kept the true, crippling, freeze of Northrend at bay.

It was also far brighter than he would have liked. The Nerubian empire was situated far below the earth, but up here the sun came at him with as much force as it could through the cloud cover – a force that, though weak compared to the true light of the sun, would have nearly blinded him had The Prophet not used the Stone to weave a spell of darkening over their eyes.

They moved with considerable stealth through the snowy foothills of the area called the Dragonblight. Ajar’Zarak and his elites swept their eyes across the countryside, alert for enemies. None knew the exact nature of the Horrors that stalked the land above, but they were said to be mindless slaves, vicious warriors who attacked, fought, and died mindlessly, without tactics or thought. Under some circumstances this could be considered an advantage, but the Horrors were completely suicidal. Normally crippling blows were nearly ignored. Only killing blows would stop them. As such, they were possibly even more dangerous than the Faceless Ones, and they came in far greater numbers.

“Keep your eyes open, Nerubians,” instructed Ajar’Zarak. “The Horrors could be anywhere.”

The elites nodded and moved their weapons to readier positions in their hands. Aran’Jakur readied his swordstaff and held it firmly, his keen eyes sweeping the snow-covered ground. Ajar’Zarak felt reassured to have his second with him. He knew Aran’Jakur would make an excellent overseer were he to perish in the line of duty.

At the corner of his vision, he picked up movement. He turned slowly, doing his best to make the movement look casual. Sure enough, there, barely concealed behind a snowdrift, was a figure. He could not make out exactly what it was, though it looked vaguely familiar. Disguising a signal to his elites as a fidget, he pointed at the figure. They nodded nearly imperceptibly, and their grips tightened on their weapons. He held up three fingers. One by one he lowered each of them. A split second after he lowered his third finger, Atan’Arak, his most accurate marksman, fired an arrow straight at the creature’s head. It screeched in an oddly hollow voice, and the figure disappeared.

Ajar’Zarak gestured to two of his elites, one of which wielded the standard katana and shield, the other, a long poleax. They moved hurriedly towards the spot where the creature had disappeared. Before they could reach it, however, three more creatures leapt out from behind the snowdrift.

He recognized them now. They were Tuskarr, a walrus-like race that inhabited the lower, more fertile lands of Northrend. He had never seen one in person, but he had seen depictions of them fishing during his days in training.

But what were they doing in the Dragonblight? They customarily lived lower down, near the Borean Tundra, and they were certainly not hostile. Vicious in defense of their villages, perhaps, but certainly not aggressive.

It was then that he noticed what he had failed to see before. They were dead. Their eyes were hollow, their skin and flesh rotting, and one of them had part of an arm missing, with only a skeletal hand and forearm in place of the usual well-muscled arm.

Despite his sudden fear, his voice was crisp. “Attack, Nerubians! Attack! Defend the refugees!”

The Tuskarr had already begun to charge, their faces devoid of thought. Horrors, thought Ajar’Zarak grimly. ''So this must be the nature of these enemies we have feared for so long. Dead bodies, reanimated to serve… what?'' But he had no time to think, for at that moment, the Tuskarr attacked.

He was in the forefront of the defense. One of the monstrosities charged him. It wielded a massive, two-handed kind of pick. It swung sideways, at his neck. Without even drawing his weapons, the Nerubian nimbly ducked underneath the clumsy blow, then lunged forward, at the same time unsheathing his twin katanas. In the same motion, he slashed at the Tuskarr’s midsection, slicing open its belly. The Tuskarr paused briefly to examine the gaping hole in its body. That brief distraction was all Ajar’Zarak needed. He raised both swords above his head, and brought them together with a quick slice at the Tuskarr’s neck. The undead’s head rolled to the ground.

Turning, Ajar’Zarak saw that the rest of his elites had made quick work of the other two Tuskarr.

Sheathing his twin swords, he moved back towards the rest of the group.

“What were those things?” asked Aran’Jakur, a slight catch of fear in his voice.

“Horrors,” stated Ajar’Zarak bleakly. “My guess is that these ‘horrors’ are the reanimated corpses of dead beings.”

“But to what purpose? What do they want?”

“I don’t know. What matters is, whatever they want, killing us is part of it. Remain on your guard, Nerubians. There’s no telling when the next attack might come.”

They fended off six more attacks in the next hour. The attackers consisted of anything from more Tuskarr, to Magnataurs, a race of four-footed mammoth beings with large tusks, to Ice Trolls, all long-dead. The seventh attack brought something new. As they killed the last remaining assailants, Ajar’Zarak’s trained eye once again caught movement. Looking up, he beheld a horrific sight: a flying horror. He guessed it was the skeleton of a dragon of legend, for it had the same shape. It swooped down upon his elites, and a blast of icy breath from its mouth consumed two of them. When the frost cleared, he gasped. His brave warriors had been frozen solid.

Grimly, he observed the patterns of its attacks. His elites knew what to do, and they bought him as much time as possible, dodging this way and that on the ice-covered ground. When he was sure he had his strategy worked out perfectly, he crept up on top of a nearby ridge. As the skeletal dragon swooped down, Ajar’Zarak stood up, raced to the edge, and leapt.

For a brief instant, vertigo clutched at him. Then he steadied himself in the air, just in time to land on the back of the dragon. The skeletal horror roared and began trying to shake him off. Going as fast as he could, Ajar’Zarak located the dragon’s one weak point: the wing joint. As he reached it, he raised his katanas. A second later the dismembered skeletal wing fell to the ground below.

Roaring, the dragon began to spiral downwards. Ajar’Zarak leapt clear just as the dragon hit the ground. His elites moved in to finish it. A few moments later, they backed away from the skeletal dragon’s still form.

“What was that?” asked one of the elites in a shaking voice. Ajar’Zarak had already thought of a suitable name for these winged terrors. “Frost Wyrm,” he said.

Three or four hours and twenty-odd attacks later, the sky was again blotted out, this time by not one shadow, but two. One Frost Wyrm swept towards the elites and began harassing them with small spits of its frosty breath. Bit by bit, they were driven back, away from the refugees. The second one swooped over the refugees themselves. Suddenly it was driven back by a bright golden light. The Prophet emerged from the midst of the terrified Nerubians, holding the Legacy Stone aloft. Imperiously, he pointed at the Frost Wyrm harassing the elites. The light surrounding the Stone gathered, and fired in a bolt straight at the skeletal dragon. The dragon roared, reared up in midair… and dissolved.

Turning his shocked visage to The Prophet, Ajar’Zarak saw the second dragon returning.

“Exalted Prophet! Behind you!” shouted Ajar’Zarak, but it was too late.

The Prophet turned, gazed up at the dragon about to decimate him, then turned back and gazed steadily at Ajar’Zarak. He lifted the Legacy Stone over his head… and threw it to Ajar’Zarak. Mere seconds later, he disappeared in the blast of icy breath that emerged from the Frost Wyrm’s maw.

Numbly, Ajar’Zarak watched as the frost cleared, and saw the frozen figure of The Prophet. Then he looked down and saw the Legacy Stone. The golden glow that always seemed to permeate it had faded, and he could now make out its form. Instead of some glorious jewel or shining diamond, however, he beheld a simple golden disk, perhaps as wide across as his hand.

Reaching down, he picked it up, though he knew he had no idea how to wield such a powerful magical artifact. Yet as his fingers touched the disk, he seemed to hear a faint whispering in his mind. They hissed, urgently, quickly, telling him how to use this item to save himself and his people. Turning, he faced the Frost Wyrm. The undead monster had already begun to gather in power for another blast of icy air.

Ajar’Zarak raised his hand, the Legacy Stone clutched tightly. The Frost Wyrm unleashed another frosty blast. The Legacy Stone began to glow, and the ice breath dissipated harmlessly on either side. He pointed the Stone at the skeletal dragon, and it again began to glow. The bolt of light again shot out from the artifact, and again the Frost Wyrm roared – and vanished.

Turning, he saw all the other Nerubians staring, their faces a peculiar mix of consternation at the death of the Prophet, and respect for the overseer.

“Man… man your posts,” he croaked. “We’ll rest here for a while.”

He turned and walked back towards the refugees. As he neared them, Anub’Arak came racing out of the crowd, his face livid.

“I told you to defend him with your life, you fool! And not even half a day above ground and the Prophet is already dead!”

“He joined the battle of his own free will,” snapped Ajar’Zarak irritably.

“Hm. Either way, I’ll take the Legacy Stone now.”

The voices whispering in his mind jumped an octave. “No, you won’t.”

“What?”

“I’ll need this to fight any more Frost Wyrms who attack. You want the entire force of elites to die, fine, you take it.”

Anub’Arak stared at him coldly for a moment, and then said, “Very well. But after this is over, you will give it to me – the council, that is.”

Nodding absently, Ajar’Zarak walked away. The past few hours had been so full of activity it had felt like weeks, and he had much to consider.

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