World of Warcraft Chronicle Volume 3

by Blizzard Entertainment

  Meanwhile, Arthas and his soldiers made landfall in a region of Northrend called the Howling Fjord. The wintry conditions were harsh, and the Scourge were mysteriously evasive—a far departure from their aggressive tactics in Lordaeron.

  The Lich King used the Scourge to attack Muradin Bronzebeard and herd him toward Arthas. When the dwarf and the prince finally crossed paths, it seemed like nothing more than a chance meeting, and a fortuitous one at that. Muradin told Arthas of his purpose in Northrend, and of his more recent quest to find Frostmourne. The story of the blade enticed the prince. It could prove useful in the fight against Mal’Ganis.

  Arthas’s hopes swelled, only to be crushed by news from Lordaeron. A royal emissary tracked down the prince and delivered orders from King Terenas: Arthas and his soldiers were to return to Lordaeron immediately. As much as the prince’s loyalists wanted to stay by his side, disobeying the king’s command would amount to treason.

  Arthas knew that if he turned back now, he might never have another opportunity to find Mal’Ganis. He saw only one recourse. In secret, he burned his own ships. Every one of them. None of his soldiers knew that their prince was responsible for it. They had no choice but to remain in Northrend, at least until they could construct more vessels.

  With the prince and his forces trapped, Mal’Ganis and the Scourge attacked en masse. The undead came in numbers Arthas had never seen before, and they threatened to overwhelm his soldiers. His only hope was to seek out another power.

  Frostmourne.

  As the prince’s forces held the Scourge at bay, Arthas and Muradin tracked the runeblade to a small cavern. There, suspended within a block of gleaming ice, hung the sword. The blade radiated not only power but also something ominous and otherworldly. Muradin urged Arthas to leave Frostmourne be, but the prince could not. He had come too far to turn back now.

  The Lich King sensed Arthas’s determination. Energy burst out from Frostmourne, shattering its icy prison in a violent explosion. Jagged shards shot across the cavern, one of which impaled Muradin and struck him down.

  Arthas rushed to heal his friend. Though the Holy Light had been fickle and unreliable in the Eastweald, it answered the prince’s call. The scintillating energy coursed over Arthas and flared bright at his fingertips. All he needed to do was embrace it.

  But he did not. His thoughts turned to Frostmourne and its promise of salvation. The blade held true power. It was the key to defeating Mal’Ganis, not the Light. After all, what good had the prince’s holy power done him back in the Eastweald? It hadn’t stopped the undead. It hadn’t saved all those innocents whom Arthas had watched die before his eyes.

  In that moment, Arthas Menethil forever turned his back on the Light and took hold of Frostmourne. Its terrible power surged through him. It chilled his veins to ice. It devoured his soul.

  Through Frostmourne, the Lich King could now speak in Arthas’s mind and guide his actions. He did not yet transform the prince into his slave. For the time being, he allowed Arthas to believe that he was in control of his own fate.

  Arthas had one last act to perform before he took his place among the Scourge.

  MURADIN’S FATE

  Despite what Arthas Menethil believed, the ice shard that struck Muradin Bronzebeard didn’t kill him. It had only knocked him unconscious.

  After Arthas left the cavern, Muradin awoke. His wounds were grave, and he had no memory of who he was or why he had come to Northrend. Muradin wandered the snowy wastes on the verge of collapse. He would have died if not for the intervention of the Frostborn, a faction of dwarves who called Northrend home.

  The Frostborn discovered the injured dwarf and later nursed him back to health. It would be many years before Muradin recovered his memories and returned to Ironforge.

  Arthas Menethil returned to his base camp just as the Scourge were closing in around his forces.

  The Lich King’s voice whispered from Frostmourne, urging the prince to feed the blade. And feed it he did. Arthas carved through the undead with the fury of a winter storm.

  The humans rejoiced at the sight of their prince and his newfound power. No one knew how high a price he had paid for it.

  Arthas didn’t give his troops a chance to rest. The Lich King told him that Mal’Ganis was somewhere among the undead. The prince believed that if he could find the dreadlord—if he could kill him—then he would save Lordaeron. Arthas rallied his soldiers and launched a counterattack. Casualties soared among the humans, but the prince ignored the losses. He forged onward until he had found Mal’Ganis.

  The Lich King did not command Arthas to stand down. This was the entity’s first step toward freedom, a chance to eliminate one of his most powerful Legion handlers. The Lich King issued a single order through Frostmourne. Arthas plunged the runeblade into the dreadlord and vanquished his foe.

  The remaining Scourge scattered into the wastes. The human survivors celebrated the victory, but Arthas did not join them. He wandered alone into Northrend’s frigid wilds, where the Lich King stripped away the last shreds of his humanity. Dark knowledge flared through the prince’s mind, and he learned to wield necromantic powers just as his new master did.

  Days later, Arthas returned to his camp. His skin had become deathly pale, and his hair had turned bone white. Gone was the prince of Lordaeron. In his place stood something else. The first of the Lich King’s newest undead creations: death knights.

  Arthas Menethil slaughtered his followers, and Frostmourne feasted on their souls. Some arose from death as simple Scourge minions like those that roamed the Eastweald. Others were granted a different fate. Arthas transformed them into fearsome death knights like himself.

  The prince didn’t linger in Northrend. He rallied the rest of the Scourge to his side and prepared to return to Lordaeron.

  It was time to go home.

  THE DEATH KNIGHTS

  The Lich King’s death knights shared the same name as the infamous undead soldiers who had served the Horde in the Second War. They had much in common, such as command over necromantic magic. Yet their origins were far different. Gul’dan had forged the first generation of death knights by fusing the spirits of fallen orc warlocks to the decomposing bodies of human knights.

  THE FATE OF MAL’GANIS

  Mal’Ganis’s death infuriated the other dreadlords, but they did not punish the Lich King. The entity convinced the demons that the slaying was an unfortunate accident. Arthas Menethil had not been under his full control yet. Now he was, and the Lich King promised that the death knight would never again raise a hand against the dreadlords.

  As far as Arthas and the Lich King knew, Mal’Ganis had perished. Such was not the case. When the dreadlords crafted Frostmourne, they had shielded themselves from its power. The blade had not devoured Mal’Ganis’s soul; it had simply hurled it back into the Twisting Nether. In time, the dreadlord would be reborn into a new body.

  Far from Northrend, Thrall and the new Horde searched for a way across the Great Sea. The orcs had used ships in the Second War, but their fleet had long since vanished beneath the waves. Building new vessels would require time and resources that the Horde didn’t have. Their only option was to steal ships.

  Southshore was the perfect target. Its port boasted a number of large galleons, and it was sparsely defended. Under cover of night, the Horde stormed into the town, but the orcs did not massacre its inhabitants. Wanton slaughter was the way of the old Horde. With little blood spilled, the Horde commandeered the Alliance ships and set sail.

  Word of the theft reached Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, commander of the Alliance navy. He vowed to hunt down the orcs, and he had no intention of capturing them alive.

  Daelin Proudmoore and his navy were masters of the open water. They quickly tracked down Thrall and were poised to devastate the Horde fleet, but fate had other plans. A monstrous storm boiled across the
sky, and the seas churned in angry unrest. The tempest battered the Horde and Alliance ships, tossing the vessels about as if they were little more than toys.

  Thrall and his people took refuge on a nearby chain of islands. The clouds eventually parted and the seas calmed. The Alliance navy was nowhere in sight, but that did little to ease Thrall’s anxiety. A large portion of his fleet had vanished in the storm, including Grommash Hellscream and the bulk of his Warsong orcs. Whether they were dead or alive, Thrall did not know. Of more immediate concern was the condition of the ships the warchief still had. The storm had damaged the vessels, and the orcs would need to repair them before continuing west.

  The days ahead were not easy for Thrall and his people. They found themselves fighting enemies old and new. The storm had blown part of Daelin Proudmoore’s fleet to the islands, and humans had fanned out across their shores. Moreover, the caverns beneath the isles were home to a naga sorceress known as Zar’jira. The hateful serpentine creature commanded an army of primitive fishlike beings called murlocs.

  But Thrall did not face these dangers alone. He forged an unexpected alliance with another race that called the islands home: the Darkspear trolls.

  The Darkspears had been part of the fragmented Gurubashi empire in Stranglethorn Vale. For centuries, near constant famine and warfare had plagued the trolls. The Darkspears were not savage and ruthless like the other tribes, and that made them easy targets. They had suffered immense cruelty at the hands of their fellow Gurubashi before finally abandoning Stranglethorn. The Darkspears sailed west and settled on a remote string of islands.

  Thrall felt an immediate kinship with the Darkspears and their wise and elderly chieftain, Sen’jin. He sensed the goodness in their hearts, and he saw many similarities between his people and the trolls. They had both suffered oppression, and they were both in need of help to survive in a world that seemed determined to eradicate them.

  The Horde and the Darkspears fought shoulder to shoulder on two fronts: one against the humans, the other against Zar’jira and her scaly followers. Thrall and his allies prevailed, but not without great cost. Blood was spilled on all sides. Among the fallen was Sen’jin.

  In honor of the late chieftain, Thrall invited the Darkspears into the Horde. The trolls accepted, seeing little future on their war-torn island home.

  After repairing their vessels, the orcs continued across the Great Sea. Many Darkspear trolls joined them, but others remained behind for the time being. Leadership of the tribe fell to Sen’jin’s son, a young shadow hunter named Vol’jin. He rallied what was left of his people and gathered as many supplies as he could. Then he struck out west after the Horde, hoping against hope that he and his tribe would find peace in the distant lands of Kalimdor.

  While Thrall and his Horde were sailing the Great Sea, the undead mysteriously pulled back from the Eastweald and vanished from sight. The citizenry didn’t know the cause, but they had theories. Most humans believed that their beloved prince had succeeded in his quest to destroy the Scourge in Northrend.

  In truth, the Lich King had ordered the Scourge to retreat in preparation for Arthas’s homecoming. If the people believed their prince had defeated the undead, they would welcome him into Lordaeron’s capital as a triumphant hero. By the time anyone suspected that something was amiss with Arthas, it would be too late.

  Arthas Menethil soon arrived in his homeland with an army at his back. He had brought more than his undead soldiers and death knights on the voyage to Lordaeron. His forces included all manner of Scourge monstrosities: human necromancers, the lumbering patchwork creatures called abominations, undead spiderlike crypt fiends, winged gargoyles, and even frost wyrms, dragons raised into undeath and imbued with icy magic.

  The prince ordered his army to stay hidden for the time being. Only a handful of death knights accompanied him on his march to the capital. To hide their deathly pale skin and gaunt features, they shrouded themselves in long hooded cloaks.

  Word of Arthas’s approach spread across Lordaeron. His presence seemed to confirm what many people had hoped: the prince had saved them from the Scourge.

  Hundreds of citizens gathered in the capital to welcome Arthas. The bells tolled at his arrival, and the adoring crowds showered his entourage with rose petals. But Arthas ignored the masses. In eerie silence, he marched to the throne room, where his father eagerly awaited him.

  At the foot of the throne, Arthas and his father reunited, but there was no embrace. No tears of joy. Frostmourne’s hunger stirred, and Arthas indulged it with Terenas Menethil’s soul.

  Before the city even knew the king was dead, Arthas and his death knights rampaged through the streets. So many well-wishers had come to the capital that the overcrowding quickly led to chaos and confusion. The citizens had no chance against Arthas and his servants. Simultaneously, the Scourge emerged from hiding across Lordaeron and launched attacks against the living.

  The Third War had begun in earnest.

  The other Alliance nations could hardly believe the news coming out of Lordaeron. None of them had ever imagined that such a nightmare scenario could come to pass. Most were unprepared to deal with it, but that didn’t stop them from trying. Magi from Dalaran, dwarves from Ironforge and Aerie Peak, gnomes from Gnomeregan, and soldiers from neighboring human kingdoms converged on Lordaeron to vanquish the Scourge. Even Quel’Thalas, which had cut its ties to the Alliance, dispatched high elf priests to help defeat the undead.

  But nothing could stand against the Scourge. The undead were more than just an army of mindless zombies. Under the Lich King’s command, every creature had a purpose. Necromancers empowered their allies with dark magic and reanimated the corpses of fallen enemies. Abominations trampled over Alliance soldiers like walking siege engines. The crypt fiends burrowed beneath the ground and ambushed their unsuspecting foes. Gargoyles and frost wyrms grappled with the Alliance’s gryphon riders and other aerial support.

  By far, Arthas and his fellow death knights were the Scourge’s most effective weapons. They were skilled in physical combat as well as in necromancy. One death knight could turn the tide of battle in the Scourge’s favor and singlehandedly lay waste to countless Alliance soldiers.

  And that was exactly what Arthas did. Lordaeron was his home, and he knew the terrain. His years of martial and paladin training also gave him insight into the Alliance’s tactics.

  In time, he used this knowledge to seize the kingdom. Small pockets of Alliance resistance remained, but they were little more than stubborn holdouts.

  Lordaeron belonged to the Scourge.

  Though all the Alliance races had sent soldiers to aid Lordaeron, one was largely absent from the fighting: the gnomes.

  The gnomes were a highly intelligent people, renowned for their skills in science and engineering. They supplied the Alliance with its most advanced weaponry and war machines.

  When the Third War was under way, the gnomes dispatched these armaments to Lordaeron, but they offered little in the way of soldiers. This came as something of a mystery to the other Alliance nations. Some members of the faction even questioned the gnomes’ loyalty.

  What the rest of the Alliance didn’t know was that Gnomeregan was under siege—not by the Scourge but by brutish creatures called troggs.

  Troggs had emerged as a threat only in recent times. For thousands of years, they had slept in the deep, dark reaches of an ancient fortress called Uldaman. They would have kept slumbering forever if not for a chance encounter with dwarves from Ironforge.

  The dwarves had delved into Uldaman to gather artifacts and knowledge, and they inadvertently woke the monsters that slept in its belly. The troggs brutally slaughtered the explorers with glee. The survivors scrambled out of Uldaman in terror and fled back to Ironforge. The dwarves were relieved to find that the troggs didn’t follow them. Their observation was only partially correct.

  The troggs were
n’t hunting them on the surface; they were hunting them from below.

  Most of the troggs loathed traveling aboveground, and they used their jagged claws to dig through the earth and carve out tunnels. As they neared their prey in Ironforge, strange noises caught their attention. Something unnatural. Something artificial.

  What the troggs heard were the great factories in the heart of Gnomeregan, the gnomes’ wondrous capital. The churning of machines and the grinding of gears were an irresistible lure for the creatures. The troggs tunneled toward the city and its unsuspecting populace. When they finally breached the lowest levels of Gnomeregan, they encountered no resistance.

  Physically, the gnomes were no match for the much larger and stronger troggs. Mentally, however, they were far superior. The brilliant leader of the gnomes, High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, approached the trogg invasion as he would any other problem. He didn’t allow fear or anger to overwhelm him. He remained calm, relying on his people’s ingenuity and technical know-how to find a solution.

  Mekkatorque stationed soldiers and war machines at choke points to hold the invaders at bay. But the troggs were not so easily contained. Again and again, they burrowed through the earth and bypassed the defenses.

  Even with the gnomes’ technology, their army simply wasn’t large enough to fight off the invaders. Mekkatorque briefly considered calling on the Alliance for help, but he abandoned the idea. Protecting Lordaeron from the Scourge was of the utmost importance, and he didn’t want to divert any resources from that front. In fact, he considered the northern campaign so important that he kept news of the trogg invasion a secret from his allies.