CHAPTER 38: Intrigue in the Shadows
In the dim, echoing corridors of Grim Batol, Prince Arthas Menethil moved like a specter, the enchanted medal from Deathwing pulsing faintly against his chest. So far, his decisions had proven sound, earning him the respect of his companions despite his youth. No one dismissed him as a mere boy; instead, they followed his lead with the discipline of seasoned warriors. After outlining the plan—Alleria and Muradin would harass the outer defenses to draw away patrols, creating diversions in the dense forest where aerial pursuits by red dragons would be hampered by thick canopies and low branches— the group had split up. The forest's natural cover negated much of the dragons' air superiority, turning what could have been a suicidal assault into a calculated guerrilla tactic.
Activating the medal enveloped Arthas in a shimmering veil of invisibility, rendering him undetectable to the orc guards at the entrance. He tested its efficacy boldly, slipping past a burly female orc sentinel and, in a moment of impulsive mischief, pinching her breast. The orc whirled in fury, her axe gleaming as she confronted the male guard beside her.
"Kuk Badar, I'm warning you—if you lay a hand on me again, I'll cleave your skull!" she snarled, her thin fangs—more like delicate tiger teeth than the thick tusks of her male counterparts—flashing in the torchlight. Orc females exuded a wild, exotic allure, their muscular frames promising both ferocity in battle and an untamed vigor that stirred primal thoughts.
The male orc recoiled, his own fangs bared in confusion. "You're mad, woman! I didn't touch you!"
Arthas stifled a chuckle and pressed onward, his mind wandering to darker fantasies. The orc's toned physique, honed by endless warfare, evoked images of conquest—not just on the battlefield, but in more intimate arenas. She would make an ideal vessel for his desires, a resilient partner to endure his passions without breaking. But such distractions were fleeting; the mission demanded focus.
Grim Batol had once been the proud stronghold of the Wildhammer dwarves, a clan forged in the fires of dwarven civil war. Centuries ago, the War of the Three Hammers had ravaged these halls, infusing the stone with twisted magic that rendered it uninhabitable for its former masters. As Arthas delved deeper, he encountered remnants of that cursed history: warped boulders slick with dried blood, spectral winds whispering of unrestful souls. The air grew chill, carrying the faint echo of ancient screams.
Orc patrols dotted the tunnels at regular intervals, their green-skinned forms a testament to their race's martial prowess. Adult orcs, regardless of gender, were formidable combatants—much like trolls, but with a shorter reproductive cycle that allowed their numbers to swell rapidly, though their lifespan mirrored humanity's. Where trolls emphasized raw strength and regeneration, humans balanced physicality with intellect and adaptability, unlocking greater potential. In Arthas's augmented vision, granted perhaps by the medal's latent magic, each orc glowed with an aura indicating their level of power. The mightier ones bulged with muscle, a single arm thicker than a human thigh, capable of pulverizing an unarmored foe with one blow.
Beyond the orcs, Arthas spotted forest trolls aiding in the subjugation of weaker red dragons, their lanky forms weaving spells to bind the beasts. In a vast chamber, two-headed ogres lumbered alongside gronn—massive, one-eyed behemoths serving as enforcers. The ogres' dual heads were a curiosity: one sharp and commanding, the other dull and vacant, yet this duality elevated them to leadership roles within their clans. As natural spellcasters, they wielded arcane might alongside brute force, making them invaluable to the Horde's hierarchy.
Arthas memorized the labyrinthine paths, noting how the medal seemed to subtly guide him, its gem humming with intent. Was this Deathwing's doing? The black dragon's motives were suspect—likely centered on the dragon eggs or the Demon Soul itself, the artifact Nekros used to enslave Alexstrasza. Arthas's thoughts raced: Why aid a human prince unless it served a greater scheme? Glancing upward at the low ceiling—barely seven meters high, now fully embedded in the mountain's belly—he shuddered. A collapse here would be fatal; no escape without teleportation magic. Even a paladin's resilience couldn't defy suffocation.
Paranoia gripped him. He had always viewed enemies through a lens of maximum malice. In this world, alliances stemmed from necessity, not altruism. His aunt's affections? Influenced by familial bonds, twisted into intimacy. Queen Taria's submission? Secured by his status as Lordaeron's heir. Alleria's passion? Born from gratitude for saving her brother, amplified by guilt over his resurrection—a miracle that defied logic. But Deathwing? A ancient destroyer, corrupted by Old Gods, wouldn't assist out of kindness. Words alone couldn't sway such a being; power did. If rhetoric sufficed, why wield swords or spells?
Contemplating countermeasures, Arthas's gaze fixed on the medal's gem—a shard of the Demon Soul, he suspected. He knew the lore: The Demon Soul harnessed essences from four Dragon Aspects—life from the red, dreams from the green, time from the bronze, magic from the blue—but omitted the black dragon's earth power. This omission made it ineffective against Deathwing's flight, a deliberate flaw in its creation. Yet, if Arthas could leverage it...
A wicked grin split his face. "Heh, Deathwing—if you play fair, we continue our pact. Betray me, and I'll claim more than your aid. Your daughter Onyxia? Already my plaything. Your mate Sintharia? She'll join her as my conquests, broken and begging."
Deeper in the fortress's heart, in a cavernous hall bathed in the glow of enchanted braziers, the orc warlock Nekros Skullcrusher channeled the Demon Soul's power. The artifact, a golden disk embedded with a multifaceted gem, pulsed with stolen draconic essence. Before him loomed Alexstrasza, the Red Dragon Queen, her colossal form—over fifty meters long and twenty meters tall—chained to the stone floor. Flames of life flickered along her crimson scales, a defiant barrier against the Demon Soul's assault. She couldn't flee, but neither could the artifact slay her outright; it merely sapped her strength, prolonging the torment.
"Yield, wyrm!" Nekros bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. "Command your brood to serve the Horde! Crush our foes, or suffer eternally!"
Ignorant of the Dragon Aspects' true might, Nekros saw Alexstrasza as a mere beast to be tamed, the Demon Soul as an unbeatable tool. Visions of glory consumed him: With the Queen's submission, the Horde's conquest of Azeroth would be assured. He dreamed of rising through the ranks, ousting Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer, and claiming leadership. Power bred ambition, and the Demon Soul fed both.
Alexstrasza lifted her head, eyes like molten rubies blazing with resolve. "Foolish orc, you wield a curse forged in betrayal. It binds my children, but my will endures. The Life-Binder does not break for tyrants."
Nekros snarled, intensifying the spell. Waves of coercive energy lashed at her, forcing lesser red dragons in adjacent chambers to roar in agony, their minds twisted to obedience. Yet the Queen resisted, drawing on her aspect's essence to protect the clutch of eggs hidden nearby. Logic dictated patience; allies were coming—dwarves rallying outside, and now this invisible intruder she sensed approaching.
Arthas, guided inexorably toward the chamber, pondered his next move. Confront Nekros directly? Seize the Demon Soul? Or negotiate with the Queen? Each path held risks, but logic favored alliance with the dragons over fleeting pacts with Deathwing. As diversions raged outside—Alleria's arrows felling patrols, Muradin's hammer shattering barricades—the prince steeled himself. The fortress's secrets would unravel, betrayals countered with cunning.
In the forest fringes, Alleria nocked another arrow, her elven senses attuned to the chaos. Orcs poured out, chimeras screeching overhead, but the trees confounded them. Muradin laughed amid the fray, his dwarven resilience turning ambushes into routs. Their efforts bought Arthas time, a logical symphony of distraction and infiltration.
Back in the depths, Krel the goblin slinked through shadows, his enslavement fueling plots against Deathwing. Whispers of rebellion stirred among captives—humans, dwarves, even disillusioned orcs. Grim Batol teetered on the brink, calculations clashing in a web of deceit.
As Arthas neared the hall, the medal's guidance intensified, a double-edged lure. He would turn it against its master, forging victory from treachery. The chapter of liberation beckoned, laced with shadows of impending reckoning.