The Twelve Withered Swords

In the swamps on the outskirts of Theramore, a patrol of guards was on night duty. Each carried an oil lamp for illumination so as not to step into the mud in the darkness.

The leader, Nas, was a former guard and now a lieutenant. He usually preferred to stay at his post, where he could keep an eye on his men and admire the merchant's daughter. But today was different. He led a small group of men under his command out of Theramore to check the roadblocks at Theramore Pass.

Among his companions was a guard named Byron, who sensed something was wrong and warned, "Lieutenant Nas, we're about to leave Theramore's territory."

"Silence, soldier." Nas glanced at Byron to his lower left. The lieutenant sat on his chestnut horse, while the other soldiers walked. "We are patrolling the outer defenses of Theramore. This mission is crucial, understand?"

His serious demeanor made the soldiers exchange bewildered glances. Anyone who had ever worked with him knew he was someone who disliked trouble and would usually avoid work whenever possible. Why was he acting like this today...?

"Yes, sir," Byron replied, but he hadn't gone far before asking, "Sir, where are we to patrol?"

"We'll turn back when we reach the next watchtower," Nas replied, but his horse immediately began to whinny restlessly.

"Enemy attack?" Byron shouted, drawing his weapon. The soldiers of Theramore were usually very disciplined in their training.

"No!" Nas calmed the horse and said in a perfectly calm voice, his eyes fixed ahead, having already discovered what had caused the chestnut horse to stop suddenly. "Look."

The others followed the direction he was pointing. Byron was the first to run over, using his oil lamp for light, and saw a strong man lying unconscious on the ground.

"It's a man, Lieutenant," Byron shouted, then crouched down to check the man's breath. "He's alive!"

Nas rode up on horseback and observed carefully. The man had jet-black hair and a scar on his face that had not yet healed. He was not wearing a linen or silk sweater, but rather animal hides.

"Take him back quickly." Nas dismounted and watched as several soldiers carried the unknown human onto their horses.

"Who is he, Lieutenant?" Byron asked, feeling that nothing that had happened today was a coincidence.

"How should I know?" Nas glared at the guard. "Go back and tell Sergeant Emily that we've found an unconscious person and we need Ms. Proudmoore to handle him."

Broll Bearskin awoke from an endless slumber, feeling a pain deep within his head, as if his skull were about to split open when he sat up.

"What's wrong with me?" the Druids asked, rubbing his head in confusion. He tried to recall his name, that he was Night Elf, and that he had studied the Druids path. He should be in Darnassus, so why was he here?

Broll glanced around, judging by the shadows cast by the moonlight that he was in a mountainous region. The air was dry. The Druids frowned; he disliked this environment, yet it felt strangely familiar. Why was that?

There were too many hazy memories, which he couldn't recall no matter how hard he tried. He rested for a moment, then got up and left. He still remembered where Ashenvale was, as well as Felwood and Darkshore.

"Are you sure everything is foolproof?" After Broll's figure disappeared, the two people standing on a hillside finally spoke. One of them was short, like a child, but his voice was as loud as an adult's.

"No problem, I've erased the key parts of his memory, so he can't possibly recall anything about Nathanos."

"That's good." Gizzlok patted his chest, muttering to himself, "Thank goodness."

Meryl Eastwind sighed, looking at the Goblins respect, and praised him, "You did a good job. Nathanos will reward you."

"Hehe, hopefully it's gold coins." Gizzlok grinned.

The situation developed somewhat unexpectedly, even to Nathanos. The original plan was to knock Lo'gosh unconscious and dump him outside Theramore —a step that had gone quite smoothly—and Broll Bearskin was supposed to be with Lo'gosh to protect Lo'gosh. However, a terrible incident occurred along the way. The Druids suddenly revealed the Witherer's real name, saying that he had participated in the War of the Ancients, when Broll had accidentally seen the Witherer at Blackrock Spire. This caught Gizzlok completely off guard. In desperation, the Goblins could only turn to Meryl Eastwind for help, and the powerful mage immediately used magic to erase the Druids's memory.

"But is Dire Maul really Master's next target?"

The mage sneered at the Goblins's question, his expression already dismissing Gizzlok's doubts. "Dire Maul is located in Feralas. It's a lush valley, teeming with minerals and timber. Its location is also unique, extending north to Wailing Caverns, west to the sea, and southeast to the heart of Kalimdor —the outskirts of the Barrens. Such a naturally advantageous place has long been coveted by the Night Elf and the Horde. We must not attempt to seize that land, at least not now."

"Then why does Master still want..."

"Nathanos's purpose was never Dire Maul; he was simply going to meet someone in the Dire Maul arena."

"Humans?" Gizzlok was increasingly confused. He couldn't recall when the Witherer had planted spies or sentries in Feralas, and there was no record of anything being transported to Feralas from the Artisan District.

Seeing the Goblins growing increasingly confused, Meryl stopped hiding his intentions and asked, "Have you heard of the 'The Twelve Withered Swords'?"

"The Twelve Withered Swords?" The name filled Gizzlok with curiosity. Hearing the word "Withering," Gizzlok was certain it was related to Nathanos, but even though he had been a member of the Forsaken for several years, he felt he knew less than half of what Meryl knew—he was a newcomer.

"Indeed, the Twelve Withered Swords." The mage repeated the name, then explained, "Twelve swords, twelve powers. It's an organization composed of warriors carefully selected by Nathanos. It was predicted to have twelve members, but currently there are only two."

"A warrior? What kind of warrior?"

"Possessing immense power that is completely inconsistent with his appearance, unknown to outsiders, hidden in the blind spot of people's sight."

Gizzlok listened intently, his curiosity growing with each explanation from Meryl. "So, the Witherer Master went to Dire Maul to meet such a warrior? Who is he?"

"That's not something you should know." Meryl gave the Goblins a meaningful look. The goblin swallowed hard.

"Then how do you know?" Gizzlok swore to himself that this was the last time he would ask Meryl a question; he felt that if he said another word, the mage might blast him to dust at any moment.

Upon hearing this question, Meryl laughed again, a strange and meaningful laugh. "Yes, how do I know?" he asked himself, before his body gradually disappeared, instantly teleporting back to Maraudon with magic, leaving Gizzlok alone in the Stonetalon Mountains.

The Goblins didn't blame Meryl for leaving him alone; he remembered Meryl's words.

'Twelve swords, twelve powers.'

There are only two people now.

"One is in Dire Maul, the other..."

Gizzlok shuddered, and couldn't help but wonder whether he should sign a confidentiality agreement for this secret.