Chapter Fourteen: The Power of Death

On the fortress walls, Arthas leaned on his war hammer, watching the nearby forest where countless birds had been startled into flight—the troll forces had arrived at the forest before the Bantinoel barrier, eyeing the elven lands with predatory intent.

Preparations within the fortress were underway in a flurry of activity, while Arthas held a spyglass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the trolls’ movements.

But the forests surrounding Quel’Thalas were too tall and dense. After several minutes of scanning, he could only faintly make out some troll figures and gained no useful intelligence.

Setting down the spyglass, Arthas abandoned his attempt to observe on his own and decided to wait for the elves’ scouts to reconnoiter.

At that moment, Uther approached, carrying a scroll of intelligence.

“Arthas, Lady Windrunner’s rangers just informed us. The troll force numbers around eight thousand, mostly common warriors, with one or two thousand headhunters. There are only a handful of spellcasters and witch doctors. The leader seems to be a chieftain from some tribe.”

“I understand, Master,” Arthas took the report and scanned it. “It seems the trolls are only testing the waters, without much hope.”

“Exactly. That fits Zul’jin’s style perfectly.” Uther, well acquainted with this prominent figure in the orc clans, believed Zul’jin had sent this force merely to silence dissent within the tribe.

“The trolls lack siege weapons; their crude spears and throwing axes can’t threaten the fortress’s magical walls.”

Arthas watched the elves erect one arcane crystal pedestal after another upon the ramparts—once a mana crystal was inserted, these pedestals would continuously launch low-level arcane missiles at enemies, functioning like magical cannons or crossbows.

“Have the soldiers hold the walls and gates firmly. Leave the rest to the elves’ rangers and musketeers. Don’t spare your bullets and gunpowder—fire relentlessly!”

“As you command, Your Highness!”

“This battle needs cavalry and paladins to finish it off, Master. I’ll lead the watch on the walls to prevent the trolls from using any trickery to climb up.”

“Good plan. Let’s proceed as you say.” Uther wholeheartedly agreed with Arthas’s deployment.

The outcome of this battle was destined to be unambiguous—the troll chieftain, from some minor tribe, truly believed he was avenging his priests, but in truth, they were nothing more than expendable sacrifices.

As the battle erupted, deep within Zul’Aman, Zul’jin faced Malakkas’s biting sarcasm. “Ha! Zul’jin, this is what you call a hunt? Haraz not only failed to capture the elven ranger general but got himself killed!”

“Plus, you sent that unlucky little chieftain with over eight thousand useless bodies, claiming they were on a revenge mission. Are you sure it wasn’t a death sentence?”

Malakkas cared nothing for the troops’ fates; they were the Amani trolls’ rejects, a convenient way to reduce excess population and harvest flesh and blood for sacrificial offerings. He was simply mocking Zul’jin.

“Shut up, Malakkas. I am listening to the voice of the Lynx God.” Zul’jin barked loudly, then closed his one eye once more.

Hearing Zul’jin’s words, Malakkas ceased his taunts—not out of fear, but because anyone facing loa spirits would maintain due humility.

After about three minutes of silence, Zul’jin suddenly spoke, “There is an unusual human. The Lynx God sees in him a power akin to that of Bwonsamdi.”

“Bwonsamdi?!” Malakkas's face was etched with shock—Bwonsamdi was the ancient troll god of death, known not only for his penchant for bargains but for his eerie and formidable dominion over death itself.

He was far more powerful and mysterious than typical loa. In the ancient era predating the Amani Empire, his worship spread across Azeroth, even among the noblest and oldest Zandalari clans.

The power he represented was undeniably death itself, a force so potent that even many of his priests did not fully wield it. After the Zandalari trolls’ millennia of isolation, Malakkas had nearly forgotten this ancient loa.

Zul’jin was well aware of Bwonsamdi. He fixed Malakkas with a gaze. “Humans cannot worship loa. That human cannot be connected to Bwonsamdi, but even the Lynx God fears his power. We cannot send priests after him again.”

“Why not? Haraz was strong but specialized in assassination and hunting. He was weaker than other priests in direct combat.”

“That human once tried to bind a fragment of the Lynx God’s soul and nearly succeeded. We cannot take that risk.” Zul’jin revealed the truth to Malakkas.

“If that’s the case… at least we cannot send priests anymore. That might harm the gods themselves.” Malakkas understood Zul’jin’s meaning.

“We have already silenced most dissent with this war. Regardless of the outcome, the basic objective has been achieved. There’s no need to engage the elves to the death.”

After the Lynx God departed, Zul’jin sat on a stone chair. “Let it be for now. The elves have been lucky. We need to recover. At least for the next few years, no major conflicts.”

“The gods will fully regain their strength in at most ten years. Then those priests will be able to wield their full power.”

“When that time comes, it will be the resurrection of the Amani Empire!”

The warlock lord had no objections—the Amani trolls had waited millennia and did not mind waiting another ten years.

The battle at Farstrider Fortress lasted the entire day. As the sun set again and the twin moons rose, the trolls fled back into the forest, battered and carrying the corpses of their kin.

A roar of cheers erupted from the walls. The trolls had charged fearlessly multiple times, breaching the fortress walls, but were beaten back by the allied forces. The trolls suffered four or five thousand casualties to the loss of only hundreds among the defenders.

Arthas stood on the ramparts, his armor scratched and bloodied, yet the holy light on his war hammer burned bright. He gazed in the direction of the retreating trolls, a faint look of puzzlement in his eyes.

“We have won, Your Highness!” the soldiers of Lordaeron shouted excitedly.

Suppressing his doubts for the moment, Arthas responded to the soldiers’ high spirits before seeking out his master, Uther.

“Arthas, well done.” Uther did not withhold his praise, fully acknowledging Arthas’s performance in this supporting battle.

“I only did what I was supposed to, Master. After this defeat, the trolls likely won’t launch any large-scale invasions for years.”

Arthas pondered briefly before deciding to share his suspicions with Uther. “But I believe they may be plotting something bigger.”

“You mean the trolls risking their lives to retrieve their comrades’ bodies?”

“Yes. Trolls don’t usually collect fallen comrades on the battlefield, especially when they come from different clans. Yet they suffered even greater losses just to carry some corpses away.”

“What do you think their purpose is?” Uther asked.

“A ritual—most likely a grand sacrifice to help their gods regain strength faster.” Arthas withheld another detail—the deathly power had granted him a soul vision, allowing him to see the souls of the dead trolls gathering deep within the primal forest.

All the casualties from this war would become nourishment for their gods, so the price the trolls paid was not as great as it seemed.

Arthas understood that within ten years, the Amani trolls would likely rise again to wreak havoc. When that time comes, it would be no mere skirmish; the entire Quel’Thalas and Lordaeron could face immense danger.

At least this battle had bought Lordaeron a decade of respite—had the elves’ Farstrider forces and Sylvanas fallen here, the southern forests of Quel’Thalas would have known no peace, and Lordaeron’s borders would have suffered greatly.

“The trolls’ brutal and bloody rituals will eventually meet justice,” Uther said gravely. Any human with normal sensibilities harbored no sympathy for trolls, let alone a paladin devoted to mercy and righteousness.

“There will be such a day, Master. But now, we can savor the joy of victory.”

“You’re right. I will report your crucial contributions in this battle to King Terenas. I believe your father will be pleased as well.”

As the two paladins conversed, one of the accompanying archmages approached Uther, presenting a magical document.

Uther examined it and nodded. “King Terenas has already received word of our victory through the mages’ communication. He orders us to rest in Quel’Thalas for three days before returning to Lordaeron.”

“That’s excellent news. I happen to have an invitation to Lady Windrunner’s victory banquet.”

Uther paused. “When did she invite you?”

“Just yesterday, after I brought back the head of that troll priest,” Arthas replied. “Master, will you join me?”

“No, I’m not fond of banquets.” Uther seemed to recall something and declined the invitation.

Arthas was unsurprised; Uther rarely attended human noble gatherings, appearing only at events hosted by the Silver Hand or his own invitations. The grand knight preferred to hone his holy light in solitude.