"Hello, Miss Jaina. Thank you and this champion for your help!"
Leaving behind his imposing bearing in battle, Uther became a courteous gentleman. He thanked Jaina with impeccable manners, and she nodded reservedly, took a scroll bearing King Terenas's seal from her sleeve, and handed it to him.
"Commander Uther, these are His Majesty Terenas's private orders. As your assistants, my squire and I will also join this rescue."
Once she saw that Uther had finished reading the scroll, Jaina lowered her voice, even though there were only three people in the command tent, including Dick.
Perhaps the contents of the scroll were simply too shocking. In any case, after reading it, the middle-aged man sat in his chair, seemingly without even the inclination to speak. Rubbing his temples with a headache, he turned his gaze toward the smiling Jaina. After letting it linger briefly on the expressionless Dick, Uther spoke.
"The Order of the Silver Hand needs time to recover. Even with Hearthglen's troops, we can deploy no more than five hundred men. If Stratholme is already in the same state as Andorhal, with so few soldiers, I'm afraid..."
"You needn't worry about that, Mr. Uther."
Jaina glanced back at Dick. He nodded, stepped forward, and said quietly,
"According to the Young Lady's private intelligence network, we can confirm that there have been no outbreaks of the plague in Stratholme yet. Dark forces are lurking in that city, and their target is Prince Arthas. As long as we can bring him back before the prince makes any wrong decisions, he won't be in too much danger!"
Dick's tone was solemn. Behind him, Jaina wore a peculiar expression. Since when did I have a private intelligence network?
"Oh?"
Hearing Dick's unequivocal words, Uther regained some of his spirits. He pondered for a moment.
"Is this information reliable?"
"In fact, the Young Lady also has detailed intelligence on the undead forces' activities in the Darrowmere Region. Zul'Mashar, near Quel'Thalas, is their true point of origin and base of operations. Until the dark forces' plot against the prince succeeds, there is no chance of the situation throughout Eastweald deteriorating. Mr. Uther, don't forget that Light's Hope Chapel is in Eastweald. If they anger those acolytes, even the undead, whose power has yet to fully develop, will have quite a headache."
Rather than answer Uther's question directly, Dick steered the conversation elsewhere. At the mention of Light's Hope Chapel, Uther's brow completely relaxed.
Although faith in the Holy Light had spread across the Eastern Kingdoms along with the division of humanity's seven kingdoms, the Church of the Holy Light currently had only three holy sites: Holy Light Monastery in Tirisfal, Light's Hope Chapel in Eastweald, and Northshire Abbey in the southern Kingdom of Stormwind. These three holy sites each represented a different attitude toward the Holy Light.
Holy Light Monastery was the most extreme, focusing on studying the Holy Light's offensive properties. This was also one reason it would later become a stronghold of the fanatical, deranged Scarlet Crusade. Northshire Abbey was the gentlest, concentrating on the Holy Light's healing properties. This was also why the Kingdom of Stormwind's Cathedral of Light flourished so greatly; it was closest to the Holy Light's essence.
Light's Hope Chapel, meanwhile, focused on the Holy Light's Path of the Guardian. The paladins who emerged from there were as steadfast as enduring mountains and the earth. This was also the fundamental reason why, three years later, when the entire Northern Frontier fell to the undead, Light's Hope Chapel alone could hold firm on the front line of the undead invasion.
At this point in time, Light's Hope Chapel was not yet as famous as it would later become. But as Dick had said, it harbored an enormous number of acolytes. Once provoked, these fanatics who served the Holy Light with such devotion were enough to give even King Terenas a headache.
He nodded, stroked his neatly trimmed beard, and said to Jaina and Dick with a smile,
"Then we'll set out as soon as the order withdraws to Crusader's Hold. I happen to have heard that my old brother-in-arms Alexandros has been staying at Light's Hope Chapel recently. We can ask for his help as well."
Jaina's eyebrows rose involuntarily at this.
"Do you mean Highlord Alexandros Mograine, one of the paladins' commanders during the Second Orcish War? My father was always telling me about that highlord's valor! Though I've heard his temper isn't very good."
"Ha ha ha, that's him!"
Uther laughed heartily and clapped his hands. "Alexandros is a worthy paladin and lord, but he is also extremely strict with his subordinates, especially his two sons. Still, Renault and Darion are both fine young men. They'll surely become champions like Alexandros someday."
At those words, Dick smiled without speaking.
Alexandros Mograine, lord of Holy Light Monastery and the Brill region, would become the "Ashbringer" in three months. Before Arthas, wielding the Runeblade, fully accepted the Lich King's power, even that mighty King of the Death Knights would be no match for him. Yet this hero would meet a terrible end, betrayed and murdered by his eldest son.
His younger son would lose his life trying to redeem him, only to become an evil war machine of the Lich King, the leader of the "Four Horsemen." The treacherous eldest son would be killed by his fallen younger brother, ending the Mograine family line.
It was undoubtedly a tragedy that would leave everyone wringing their hands in sorrow. Uther, however, would never see any of it, for before his old brother-in-arms died, he would already have been killed by his own pupil, Arthas.
"Beep... Uther's Predicament completed!"
Receiving the reward for completing the quest, Dick's lips curved into a faint smile. Since I'm going to change the course of this world, I might as well start with what's right in front of me. Keeping the Ashbringer active sounds like quite an exciting idea.
In Zul'Mashar, Eastweald, a fierce battle was underway.
Tattered war banners of Lordaeron and the Silver Hand stood in a crude camp, while trolls that had been completely transformed into plague-infected undead creatures charged from every direction, trying to break into it. Judging by the thick layer of bone ash and the bodies that had yet to be cleared away around the camp, the battle had been raging for a long time.
"Break through! Falric, go to Light's Hope Chapel! Find Lord Tirion Fordring and ask him to come reinforce us!"
Arthas smashed down the plague troll before him with his hammer, then raised his left hand. A warm glow of Holy Light fell upon Falric, who stood beside him covered in wounds. Hearing the prince's shout, the valiant captain of the guard glanced toward the mists to the south and roared. He swung onto the prince's warhorse and charged through the passage Marwyn and the others had opened for him with their lives.
Seeing Falric successfully break through the enemy's obstruction, the exhausted Arthas drew a deep breath.
"Fall back! Fall back! Retreat into the camp! Use fire against this evil scum!"
Under Arthas's command, the last twenty-odd knights struggled to hold back the plague trolls with the holy water they carried and the firewood they had gathered. As the lifeless trolls broke through the first defensive line, the tattered war banners of Lordaeron and the Silver Hand fell limply into the surrounding flames. On a more distant hillside, a figure in black robes, a longsword on his back, sat astride a horse. Several trembling cursed mages stood beside him.
"Still no word from Kel'Thuzad?"
The black-robed knight looked at the cursed mages. They shook their heads, and he immediately snorted.
"That useless fool! Is the magic circle for summoning Mal'Ganis ready?"
"Baron, the magic circle has long been ready, but without Lord Kel'Thuzad presiding over it, it's difficult for us to succeed in a single attempt. Our previous two summonings both ended in failure!"
The aged cursed mage was about to offer an explanation when a flash of steel swept across his neck. As his aged head and headless body fell to the ground, the smell of blood jolted the other cursed mages to attention. Wiping his longsword with a handkerchief, the black-robed knight coldly regarded the remaining mages, who had taken a step back.
"I don't care how you do it. You must summon Mal'Ganis here before tonight. Our great master's plan has already been delayed by three full days! Because of your incompetence, I've had to find ways to keep Arthas trapped here for those three days. But my patience, and the master's, has run out. Don't tell me you're helpless without Kel'Thuzad!"
The black-robed knight slid his longsword back into its scabbard and habitually rubbed the Lord's Signet on his finger.
"The plague grain has already been distributed throughout Stratholme. In four hours, the plague will erupt. If Mal'Ganis hasn't arrived by then, you can face the master's wrath yourselves. Go and prepare. Remember, you have only four hours left!"
The black-robed knight cast one last glance at Arthas, still holding his position. Beneath his two neatly styled tufts of mustache, a sinister smile spread.
"Come, little prince. I've laid out a grand feast for you in Stratholme to celebrate your coming over to our side!"
Meanwhile, having broken out of the encirclement, Falric ignored his badly wounded body and lashed his riding crop like a madman. This warhorse, named Invincible, was the prince's favorite mount. Proud and untamed, he was like a king among horses. Now, however, Invincible seemed to sense his master's peril as well. He galloped swiftly, like a bolt of black lightning piercing the green mist.
Falric could not help being anxious. Although the prince looked as though he could keep fighting, only Falric and Marwyn, the captains of the guard closest to him, knew that the twin pressures of the Scourge's plague and Baron Rivendare of Stratholme's betrayal had drained the prince's strength to its very limits.
Three days earlier, while they were on their way to Stratholme, plague trolls charging out of Zul'Mashar had trapped the party in its mountains. Those plague trolls had blocked their attempts to break out as though possessed. The fierce fighting had continued from the very beginning until now.
Of the three hundred men, only twenty-odd remained.
Reinforcements! I have to find reinforcements!
Falric lashed Invincible once more. But now, after fighting alongside the prince for three days and galloping for nearly half an hour through the plague mists that blanketed Zul'Mashar, the warhorse finally exhausted his last shred of strength.
"Neigh!"
Hearing Invincible's pained whinny, Falric instinctively sensed that something was wrong. But before he could react, the world spun around him, and he was thrown clear.
The black warhorse struggled feebly on the ground. Supporting himself with his longsword, Falric made his way painfully to Invincible. Looking at the tears in the horse's eyes, his twisted hooves, and the bloody wounds covering his body, Falric, for all the countless lives his blade had claimed, could not help sinking to one knee beside Invincible's great head.
"You're worried about the prince too, aren't you?"
Falric's voice trembled as he struggled to draw a dagger from inside his clothing.
"Don't worry. I'll find reinforcements. I'll save the prince!"
"Neigh!"
Invincible weakly raised his head and licked Falric's filthy face. The veteran held down the warhorse's increasingly feeble body, then slashed sharply with his left hand. Invincible's head fell limply to the ground. Tears of pain still lingered in the warhorse's beautiful blue eyes, but all life had faded from them.
"Aaaaargh!"
Falric threw back his head and roared, pounding both fists against the ground. He rose and took one last look at the warhorse lying beside the road. Leaning on his longsword, he checked his direction, then limped away into the green mist. That road led to Light's Hope Chapel.
For Falric, it was also the road to hope!