Chapter 39: The Minotaur Envoy

Brann was stunned. This information had been extracted under duress from a troll priest, and not much time had passed since Muradin had mentioned it to him. How could Arthas be so certain that it was a trap?

"Did Muradin go looking for that weapon himself and get attacked by the undead?"

"How did you know? Did Muradin tell you?" Brann felt like he was losing his mind. How did this Arthas know everything?

Could it be that he had already frozen to death out in the wasteland, and everything happening now was just a post-mortem delusion?

As he thought this, a gust of cold wind slipped through a gap in the tent flap, making Brann shudder. He studied Arthas, who was currently examining a map, and found his demeanor as steady and gentle as ever—the picture-perfect paladin.

Hell, could even a ghost disguised as the Prince of Lordaeron wield the Holy Light?

Brann adjusted his fishing hat and cleared his throat. "So, what else do you know?"

"I also know that the weapon is a runeblade, guarded by ancient vengeful spirits, hidden deep within a cold and desolate cavern," Arthas’s voice reached Brann’s ears.

"Anything else?" By this point, Brann didn't even realize his voice was trembling. The old dwarf, who had delved into tombs, excavated graves, and explored countless ancient ruins, was actually feeling spooked by ghosts.

I wonder if a rifle can kill a spirit... Brann muttered to himself.

"Of course there is more. The name of the weapon is Frostmourne. Brann, why are you shaking? Is it too cold in my tent?"

Arthas felt the temperature and didn't think it was particularly cold. A dwarf who had lived in the freezing mountains all his life certainly shouldn't be bothered by this.

"Are you really Arthas?" Brann stared at the prince. "Or some demon or spirit in disguise?"

These questions made Arthas chuckle. He conjured a burst of Holy Light and cast it over Brann, dispelling the chill in his heart. "I am, of course, the Prince of Lordaeron, genuine in every way."

Brann shivered, slowly recovering from that unnatural cold. He seemed a bit dazed. "Er—I think I wasn't quite myself just now."

"Not yourself?" Arthas finally realized the problem. "Brann, have you been to any elven ruins lately?"

"Before... I mean, before your subordinates rescued me, we explored a small ruin of elven architecture," Brann answered truthfully.

Arthas summoned another burst of Holy Light, even brighter than the last. Under its protection, Brann felt his body heat gradually return.

"It seems you have been latched onto by an elven vengeful spirit," Arthas frowned. "That explains the hallucinations and the scattered, irrational thoughts."

"Elven vengeful spirit? So I really did see a ghost," Brann returned to his usual dwarven self and rubbed his large nose. "Why didn't I feel it before?"

"That's because you were in Howling Fjord, where the undead energy is thin, so the influence was negligible. I didn't notice it then. But this is Dragonblight, specifically the northern region."

Brann, being experienced, understood what Arthas meant. The strength of the undead was closely linked to their power in life. For instance, it was difficult for ordinary humans to form ghosts after death, but elves, upon dying, were prone to becoming spirits infused with necromantic energy.

Dragonblight, as the name implied, was the "white desert" where most dragons chose to be buried. Since ancient times, whether they died by accident or of natural causes, dragons would either fly back to Dragonblight to find a final resting place or be brought back by their kin.

Perhaps deep beneath the thick snow and soil they were standing on lay the remains of an ancient dragon. Because these creatures possessed immense energy in life, their remains could foster a significant amount of necromantic energy.

While it was unrealistic for this energy to make a dragon’s corpse walk again, it was not difficult for it to influence "weaker" beings.

Brann must have provoked a ghost somewhere, causing necromantic energy to cling to him. At the time, the energy was too weak to affect him, but upon arriving in Dragonblight, the situation had changed entirely.

Perhaps Brann was only feeling cold and having wild thoughts now, but if left untreated, he might soon descend into madness or lose the ability to distinguish friend from foe.

"Damn it, I can't believe I didn't notice I'd been cursed." Brann felt utterly humiliated. An experienced explorer almost tripped up in a tiny elven ruin?

"Don't blame yourself, Brann. Anyone who isn't a wielder of the Holy Light or... well, a priest, would find it hard to detect this abnormality. And even if you hadn't, a curse of this level would naturally dissipate after leaving the area where the spirits congregate. If you hadn't followed us to Dragonblight, this wouldn't have happened."

"Forget it. Regardless, it's because I underestimated the risks of Northrend... I was confused earlier, even asking you to go find that, what was the sword called again?" Brann patted his head, his memory of his previous words a bit hazy now that he had recovered.

"Frostmourne."

"Right, that 'Frost-mourn.' Bah, it’s a mouthful. Whatever it’s called, the name sounds ominous," Brann said sternly.

"Your intuition is spot on, Brann. You weren't wrong at all; this runeblade is not an ancient artifact, but a cursed blade through and through. It devours the souls of all its victims, and the more it consumes, the stronger it becomes."

Arthas’s tone remained flat, but the simple description made Brann’s skin crawl. Devouring the souls of all victims killed by the wielder? Who on earth created such a thing? And for what purpose?

"However, Brann, do you know the nature of demons?"

Brann shook his head. While he was a professional archaeologist, he didn't know much about non-Azerothian beings; otherwise, he wouldn't have mispronounced "Nathrezim."

"Demons are evil beings from the Twisting Nether. Their souls do not simply die on a physical planet; these foul souls are rejected by the world. Thus, demons return to the Twisting Nether upon death. Unless one intercepts them with special magic or items beforehand, they are almost impossible to truly kill."

As Brann listened, he felt something was off—Arthas had previously emphasized that Frostmourne was a soul-devouring blade, and now he was saying that demonic souls were difficult to truly destroy.

The old dwarf stared at Arthas with disbelief. "You... you don't mean to..."

...

In Kalimdor, on the peninsula southeast of Dustwallow Marsh, a burgeoning human city was being built. Edwin VanCleef was the chief architect and the temporary overseer of the site.

Following Arthas's wishes, he named the city Theramore, which would serve as the Alliance's bridgehead for their future presence in Kalimdor.

For now, VanCleef had set aside his work to receive a special guest in the town hall: Hamuul Runetotem, an envoy sent by the tauren to negotiate with the Alliance.

The wise tauren elder had petitioned their chieftain, Cairne Bloodhoof, to meet with these newcomers who had set foot in Kalimdor and claimed they would provide aid to the tauren.

Truth be told, even as a high-level spy from SI:7, VanCleef felt an instinctive tremor when facing these giants who stood nearly three meters tall. But he was not here as an individual; he was representing Prince Arthas, and he could not afford to show weakness.

On the day the tauren arrived in Theramore, he had the kitchen staff prepare a lavish meal for the delegation. VanCleef only felt at ease when he noticed the younger, smaller tauren guards eyeing the feast with undisguised hunger.

These guys were much gentler than they looked—at least compared to the brutal orcs. The mysterious old tauren, Hamuul Runetotem, had even managed to learn the basics of the human language in just half a day, allowing them to converse normally.

Even VanCleef, who had no expertise in magic, knew that this elder was by no means an ordinary tribesman.

"Thank you for your generous hospitality," Hamuul Runetotem’s voice sounded aged, yet full of vigor.

"It is only right, for we approach this with sincerity in hopes of forging an alliance with your people," VanCleef replied, displaying the humility typical of a human noble.

Acting was, after all, a core skill for any agent.

Hamuul Runetotem watched the human man quietly. Although the engineer—who appeared to be a mere clerk—concealed it well, Hamuul could still sense a scent of danger about him, indicating that the man possessed enough strength to pose a threat.

The various strange signs left him quite puzzled. Where had these humans come from? If they had traveled from across the sea, why would they know of the tauren's existence, or even the threats they were currently facing?

If it hadn't been for the voice of the spirits of nature that had eased Hamuul's caution, the original human scouting party would never have left their tribe alive.

Yet, he had to admit, the humans' promises were very tempting. The tauren had suffered under the threat of the centaurs for far too long, to the point where it had disrupted their daily lives.

Therefore, Hamuul and Cairne had decided to initiate contact with the humans and attempt to sound them out, hoping to understand why they had suddenly appeared in Kalimdor.