Somewhere in the Twisting Nether.
Kil'jaeden had been troubled by one question for a very long time. Not that it was primary or even important... but it still surfaced in his memory periodically and, with a persistence worthy of the most powerful Eredar, distracted him from other matters. Even now, as Sargeras's general awaited his Nathrezim subordinates for a report, his thoughts returned again and again to that same nagging problem.
"Why is the second part of everyone's name written with a capital letter, but mine with a small one?!" Now, after more than thirty thousand years since his birth, he no longer remembered at what point he discovered that those around him showed disrespect to one of the strongest sentient beings in the universe. And even if at that time he wasn't such... he was striving for it even then! And what was the result? All his vanity shattered against some paradox, consisting in the fact that even mortals living in different worlds, who by some miracle managed to learn of his existence, write the second part of his name with a small letter in their useless, short-lived paper treatises! It irritated him, and the presence of a source of constant irritation already infuriated him, and although he managed to control this weakness easily, the very fact of its existence infuriated him twice as much, making him vulnerable...
"Master!" his arrival of subordinates distracted him from reflections on the deviousness of fate in its desire to spite successful Eredar (and Kil'jaeden considered himself exactly that: immortal, influential—what more could one want?).
"Tichondrius, Anetheron, and... Mal'Ganis," he emphasized the last name, but not at all for the reason the Nathrezim thought. "Why are you in this configuration?"
His question only rooted the Dreadlords' misconceptions about the singling out of their brother due to the latter's low rank. Kil'jaeden carefully hid his weakness, especially from his henchmen.
"Mephistroth begs for forgiveness. His plan has entered its final stage, and he remained to personally oversee its execution," the insidious tones of the Nathrezim lord could have confused anyone... except Kil'jaeden.
"Commendable," the first deputy of the Burning Legion's lord remarked without much enthusiasm despite the words, "and what prompted the presence of Mal'Ganis? I don't recall him being Mephistroth's right hand."
"He has a proposal worthy of your consideration," replied the same Tichondrius, glancing briefly at Anetheron.
"A dubious idea for which they don't want to bear responsibility," translated the Eredar, who was the most sophisticated specialist in backroom intrigues and manipulations.
"Well then, Mal'Ganis, I am listening to you. And then both of you," he turned his gaze to the leaders of the Nathrezim, "will tell me about your successes on Azeroth and why there has been no noticeable progress in the Plan as of yet..."
***
Northrend, Ice Crown.
What could be worse than the collapse of all undertakings and exile by one's own people? Well, for example, death, the enslavement of the soul, and imprisonment in a block of magical ice. Yes, the former high Shaman of the Orcs also thought the latter was worse. True, he realized this too late, only when he stepped through that ill-fated portal (let portals and the one who created them be cursed!) and fell into the hands of Kil'jaeden...
And now he, Ner'zhul, was on Azeroth—in the place where his former student who betrayed him had lost. Entangled in spells of such power and artistry that his disembodied brains boiled from just one attempt to comprehend this magical construct. Surrounded by Kil'jaeden's numerous jailers. Faced with the most difficult task—to take revenge on the humans and elves—he had turned from a mighty Orc lord into a pathetic slave and merely a weapon of the fallen Eredar. And now he could only obey the orders of the servants of Sargeras's right hand, helplessly watching as the Nathrezim used his capabilities as a tool that the owner would throw into the dustbin of history without regret if it became unnecessary.
Ner'zhul remembered the first meeting of the Nathrezim, which they held in his prison, not hiding their future plans from the captive...
"Tichondrius, the elves control Northrend quite tightly. It's lucky they don't get along with the dragons, otherwise there would be no room to move at all because of them."
"We can do it either fast and loud, or slow and quiet, but in any case, the probability of failure is high. Especially in the first option," Mephistroth added to Anetheron's words.
"We, the Nathrezim," the Demon lord said slowly. "Are spies and scouts, tacticians and strategists. But certainly not warriors, though we know how to stand up for ourselves. Naturally, our choice will fall in favor of greater secrecy. A huge army is easy to hide when it consists of Undead, who do not ask for food or drink and can lie under the snow for years, unnoticed by anyone. But one problematic point remains—for necromancy, we need a lot of material, and preferably living. However, as soon as we start actively hunting for prisoners, we will be found quickly. And it doesn't matter whose settlements are plundered: Trolls, Vrykul, Furbolgs, or some Tuskarr... Or whoever else inhabits these snows? However, in the first stage of the Plan, we don't need a large army, and then, in the third, it will appear by itself. Therefore, I suggest focusing on creating a small squad of elite warriors. I am listening to your suggestions."
From the side of Tichondrius's two dozen winged kin, the specified suggestions poured in, while an order was maintained that was incomprehensible to anyone but the Nathrezim themselves.
"Dragonblight. Their bones are superior to living material."
"The graveyard is watched, but no one will stop us from stealing a few bones... for a start."
"Time is on our side; we can even dig a tunnel."
"We can, but carefully: the entire subsoil here is full of Nerubian caves."
"It's a pity the Nerubians themselves can't be put under the knife."
"Yes, they are useless for necromancy and there are too many of them to be forced into submission by strength."
"On the other hand, if we succeeded, the elves wouldn't be able to sniff it out—they don't poke their noses into caves."
"The arachnids are not entirely useless, but research is needed to overcome their innate mental resilience, which might take more than a year."
"It can be promoted as a backup option."
"By the way, nothing stops us from raiding a few settlements of those same Vrykul. It's unlikely the disappearance of a few hundred sentients will alarm the elves so much. They can't control every godforsaken village, can they?"
"The dragons sound more promising. What use to us are a couple of thousand useless hunters? They aren't worth even a pair of dragon bones several thousand years old—only an unnecessary risk of detection."
"In the far north, many animals live, both predatory and herbivorous. No one will ever know about their disappearance."
"Hmm, if we take up the matter personally, we can haul in a lot of material and do it quite quickly."
"You forget that we cannot use portals too often. Those cursed long-eared natives specifically track the fluctuations of the ether caused by spatial spells."
"I still don't understand how they do it."
"At this stage, it's enough to know that our enemies can do it."
"Several of our brothers gave their lives on the eastern continent for that knowledge."
"Back to the topic. What about the Earthen? Although as subjects for the Undead, golems are useless, if we manage to intercept control, we will get a ready-made army..."
"Cracking the Titans' code... that might turn out to be more difficult than searching for the source of the Nerubians' immunity to submission after resurrection."
"Another backup option?"
"Yes, perhaps a couple of kin can be allocated to this direction."
"Anything else?"
"The sea, one can find there..."
"That is N'Zoth's domain. In case anyone forgot—Kil'jaeden specifically warned not to enter into conflict with the Old Gods. For now."
The brainstorming ended suddenly, as if on command. Но the silence did not last long; the head of the operation to prepare the bridgehead for the attack on the Source of Magic summarized:
"We will take Dragonblight as the main plan. In parallel, we will carefully hunt predators and study the Nerubians and Earthen. We will not show ourselves on the surface unnecessarily. And don't forget—we still need to test the magical plague spell. It must play its role in the second stage one hundred percent. It is too critical in the Plan, so misfires are unacceptable. The elves are carefully monitoring portals and Fel? Well, we will strike from the side they don't expect."
After nearly four years, Ner'zhul could not help but admit that, despite their demonic nature, the Nathrezim were excellent executors and organizers rolled into one. They came up with the plan themselves—they carried it out themselves. If only they intrigued a little less, they would be priceless.
The cave in which they had settled was of impressive size, but over the years of tireless efforts made by his dead kin who had followed the Orc into that ill-fated portal, as well as the Dreadlords themselves, the huge empty spaces had become packed with motionless corpses, piles of dragon bones, and cages with living material awaiting their turn. Surveying the ranks of his army with his magical sight, he saw what power each of these deceptively fragile skeletons possessed. Not every Orc Warrior would be capable of handling the creations of demonic necromancy one-on-one. And thanks to the high-level protective spells placed in abundance on the dead fighters, an average Shaman stood no chance in a one-on-one fight. Perhaps one of his students would have managed—yes, that same Gul'dan, may he be cursed forever, surely would have been able to cope... But the traitorous student was one, and here several thousand dead had already been gathered—a small but very formidable army.
But that was not all the military power given over to his control. Ner'zhul scanned a small squad of separately standing skeletons, distinguished by their increased visible fragility but at the same time clearly radiating an invisible danger. Liches. Here, even the ill-fated Gul'dan would have failed. Even Ner'zhul himself doubted the outcome of a battle if he were to face such an opponent one-on-one during his time as the high Shaman of the Orcs, before accepting Kil'jaeden's gift, which turned out to have a catch...
In another part of the cave was the researchers' nook, characterized by scattered parts of arachnid and Earthen bodies here and there. As the old Orc expected, the Nathrezim had succeeded in neither the first nor the second undertaking. Too few forces had been thrown into these directions. Perhaps his Shamanic knowledge would have been very relevant in solving these problems, but the former Warlock did not want to help his killers and jailers. No, Ner'zhul could not sabotage a direct order, but the demons could not force the captive to take a creative approach to fulfilling their desires. Incidentally, they didn't particularly strive to, using the Orc only as a leash for the Undead and doing all the main work themselves. Fortunately for Tichondrius and his kin, Kil'jaeden had not been stingy with the number of subordinates sent to Azeroth when he began to implement his Plan.
Ner'zhul was not just observing the actions of the Nathrezim. No, he was learning. Learning everything his invisible eyes could reach. The methods and skills of the demons, the languages of the prisoners, necromancy, the management of the dead... the list was long. But the former high Shaman could not do otherwise: after all, it wasn't only Kil'jaeden who had a Plan with a capital letter. A Plan to get rid of the yoke of slavery and at the same time take revenge on the treacherous Eredar...
***
The outskirts of Hillsbrad.
"... This is our chance to take his place! If we combine our forces..." the richly dressed guy's eyes flashed fanatically and he grew more and more heated, seemingly not noticing the expression of skepticism and boredom on his listener's face.
"And yet just a couple of years ago, I was the same..." the girl thought with an internal shudder. "Fortunately, I am one of those who try to learn from others' mistakes. Unlike some. By the way, the women in our family have always been noticeably more cautious than the stupid males. Therefore, lately, I prefer to work with women... well, or with females," she stroked the muzzle of the horse shifting from hoof to hoof, standing alone: her companion, absorbed in his monologue, usually traveled on his own.
Upon close inspection, one could notice the close kinship of the two young people: both were dark-haired and possessed similar facial features. Their builds were slender and highly flexible, and their movements, despite excessive impulsiveness, were full of grace. Also, in the pair hiding from prying eyes in an unnamed grove, there were many dark tones: starting from the raven-black hair of both, the impenetrable iris of the brother's eyes and the sister's nails and lips, which attracted the eye with a deep black color without any lipstick or manicure, and ending with their clothes, in which there was a fair amount of the aforementioned shade.
"... Therefore, we must unite! I suggest..." the guy continued to persist in his tenacity, having started his monologue in nature.
She would have sent the agitator to some remote location long ago, but there were a couple of "buts" involved: her brother was an incredibly hot-tempered individual and far stronger than her—after all, he was the elder, and age in their circles was almost always synonymous with concepts like experience and personal power. Therefore, refusing was not an option.
"Excellent plan! Only we need allies..."
"Allies?" the zealot for their father's legacy asked, frowning.
"Subordinates, slaves—call them what you want," the girl corrected easily, catching his displeasure. "You don't want to handle the routine matters yourself, do you?"
"Yes, slaves are needed..."
"Then I shall head to Stormwind: it is still recovering after the war, and in murky waters, it will be easy to recruit henchmen. Besides, the Wrynn domains are the human kingdom furthest from elven lands."
"Cursed elves!" A spit followed in the form of a small globule of fire, demonstrating all the negativity the brother harbored toward Azshara's subjects. "Wait... why do we need humans at all? They are useless and already failed father! I planned to conquer the Ogres... and by the way, I need your help."
"There are many humans; there's plenty to choose from. And besides—Ogres are on the same developmental level as Murlocs—surely you can't handle some fish on your own?"
The young man looked at her intently, squinting. Through his half-closed eyelids, a vertical pupil flickered.
"However, if you insist..." the relative immediately backed down.
"No," he said after a short silence. "You're right, I can handle it myself. But then I expect you to be able to subjugate if not the whole kingdom, then certainly at least a large part of it!"
At the sensation of that heavy gaze, so reminiscent of their father's, something trembled inside her, but she did not change her decision to ditch her brother: their father had wanted many things in his time too, but even all his very real severity hadn't helped him, and he had simply died, overestimating his strength... or underestimating his opponents, which is essentially the same thing.
"Of course, brother. Shall we keep in touch as usual?.."
A few minutes later, the girl's figure on horseback disappeared from sight.
"Cowardly brood hen," the young man muttered with distinct contempt in his voice.
One could not deny a certain bias and disdain the "beloved" younger sister held toward her brother. But the latter was not nearly as stupid as the departing girl imagined. The young man was perfectly aware of his partner's lack of desire to cooperate, but he hoped that fear of his power would keep his sister from rash actions, just as fear of their father's power had once held them, as well as their mother.
Except he was greatly mistaken about the degree of her disillusionment with her blood relatives... Having seen the power of Azshara in all its magnificence, the sister, unlike her mother, had no intention of joining this mad struggle for power for power's sake.
The "conqueror" of Stormwind hadn't even traveled two kilometers before she turned at the nearest crossroads, intending to loop back and return to Lordaeron. However, the large black dragon, who until very recently had been the young man answering to the name of Victor Nefarius, no longer noticed this: his path lay in the opposite direction, to the east.
***
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