Wrath of the Light

Chapter Seventeen: The Fall of Drak'theron Keep

The wind raged without relent. The snow swirled in droves so thick that one could not see more than a few feet in front of them. A biting chill bad enough to drive even the undead inside now swarmed throughout the lands. And Drak'theron Keep stood tall amidst it.

Inside the fortress itself, however, the howling was muted by black stone walls. The cold was driven back a bit by spells designed to keep Mal'ganis' living servants alive and well. Also his prisoners.

As Necromancer Mustang made his way through the halls. Once, a long time ago, Mustang had been a promising mage of the Kirin Tor. Yet he was fascinated by the darkness, and for his efforts was cast out. He was in time called to Northrend.

There he had met Mal'ganis, who taught him and his brethren much about the dark arts. For his sake, Mustang had been raising countless undead over the past few months. Far more than was normal. An effort which now seemed for naught.

'Did you hear the reports?' asked Malcov, a thin-faced necromancer of equal rank. He came from another hall. 'The Prince destroyed another outpost. Just before the blizzards hit.'

'We've lost more undead in a few days than we have in years.' said Mustang bitterly. 'I tell you as soon as this is over the living are going to be pressing at the borders all over again. It'll take years to recover from this mess.'

'True enough,' said Malcov, 'still, no doubt Lord Mal'ganis knows what he is doing.'

They came to the steel doors, great and heavy with skulls engraved on them. Mustang rapped upon them with his staff and waited to be acknowledged. After a moment the doors opened with a groan, and he and Malcov walked through. They found Mal'ganis standing in the center of a circular room. He was gradually draining the life from an elven female.

She screamed and screamed as the Dreadlord little by little drew out her life force. He did so with agonizing. Eventually, she ran out of breath and stopped screaming. Then she was dead. With a flick of Ma'gais claw, the woman was consumed in green flame and fell to the floor as ashes.

The Dreadlord looked up. 'Ah, you have both returned. What news?'

'Sir,' said Malcov, 'the blizzard has been raging for nearly two days now. If the Prince didn't find shelter before it hit, he's surely dead by now.'

'No, necromancer.' said Mal'ganis. 'He is alive. And he is coming here.'

'Here?' asked Mustang 'You mean that the Prince is traveling through a blizzard to attack us? Alone? He has gone quite mad then.'

'If he hadn't I'd be disappointed in my efforts.' replied Mal'ganis 'But do not be fooled. He will not be easy prey, even if he is alone.' He motioned with one hand. Suddenly they were teleported to one of the towers. Through a window shielded by magic they had a perfect view of endless whiteness.

And out of that whiteness, there came light. It was dim at first, but then it grew in intensity until they were forced to avert their eyes. The blizzard was clearing. As it did across the snowy wastes, they saw the Prince of Lordaeron walking towards them. Frostmourne was in his hand. Him taking it up was an important part of the plan, some scheme of the dark lords. Yet the servants of Mal'ganis and the servants of Ner'zhul did not share information. What purpose was served by giving the Prince that kind of power?

'How...' Mustang began, 'how can he have come all this way?'

'Perhaps his light has guided him,' reflected Mal'ganis, 'a final gasp before the plunge. Send out all our remaining forces. Summon reinforcements from the surrounding lands. Call forth the Frostwyrms as well, send them to destroy his soldiers.'