Chapter Five: Lor'themar Theron

The route to the Quel’Thalas border was the main thoroughfare through the Eastern Wilds, free of danger, with curious farmers and villagers lining the way to observe the elite troop.

Led by Arthas, over seven hundred men marched in silence, the only sounds the clinking of armor and the clash of weapons. Their polished armor gleamed, and their spears and blades shimmered coldly, a clear display to the people of Lordaeron of the formidable force they represented.

Especially notable were the twenty knights of the Shadow Council at the front. Unlike the ordinary Lordaeron soldiers clad in gold-and-silver armor and blue and gold cloaks, these twenty knights wore black armor edged with silver, their cloaks deep crimson.

For reasons unknown, even from a distance, an inexplicable pressure seemed to emanate from them.

In fact, the ten paladins accompanying the force had also noticed this. Each was astonished by the imposing presence of the Shadow Council knights. Across all of Lordaeron, only the Silver Hand knights could rival them.

These twenty knights were not mere showpieces; each was meticulously chosen from the most elite members of Lordaeron’s royal guards.

Every Shadow Council knight was an extraordinary warrior, their solo combat prowess equal to any Silver Hand paladin, and on the battlefield, they were even more efficient killers.

After initial selection, they underwent specialized training, and only those who survived were admitted into the order. Their sole allegiance was to Arthas alone.

Though such singular loyalty might seem at odds with the king’s interests, King Terenas trusted Arthas completely. Knowing his own time was limited and having only this son, he tacitly allowed—if not actively encouraged—this arrangement.

He hoped that before his passing, his son would become the wise ruler Lordaeron had not seen in a millennium.

At a swift pace, by the afternoon of the next day, Arthas and his troops reached the checkpoint fortress nestled at a mountain pass in the Eastern Wilds. This stronghold guarded the only land route into the elven kingdom of Quel’Thalas, known to humans as the “Gate of the Elves.”

Two archmages accompanying the army presented magical runes prearranged with the elves on the fortress walls. Once their identities were confirmed, the gates were opened.

A towering and robust elf commander approached. After saluting Arthas and Uther, he spoke in flawless Common, “Good day, Your Highness the Prince, and Lord Uther. We did not expect you to lead the troops personally. Quel’Thalas and the Rangers thank you for your assistance. I am Lor’themar Theron, deputy to the Ranger-General. She sent me to welcome you.”

Lor’themar was a familiar figure. During the Second War, he had led elven reinforcements to support Lordaeron, and Uther held a favorable impression of him, appreciating that he lacked the arrogance typical of many elves.

“Good day, Lord Lor’themar,” Arthas returned the greeting. “I hope we have arrived in time.”

“Very timely, Your Highness. We have repelled multiple assaults by the trolls, but many Rangers have been wounded.” Lor’themar’s expression was grave; the elven population was sparse, and each Ranger was a precious asset to Quel’Thalas.

“I have brought thirty priests, led by a high priest from the Cathedral of Stratholme. They can tend to the Rangers’ injuries.”

Lor’themar breathed a sigh of relief. “Praise the Sunwell! That is most welcome. Our manpower is severely stretched, and healers are scarce. Many wounded have yet to receive proper care.”

Arthas had noticed the sparse defenses upon entering the fortress and frowned. “Lord Lor’themar, has your manpower been depleted to such an extent?”

Lor’themar’s face darkened. “Please, just call me Lor’themar. We have pulled most of our forces from the southern forests to hold the eastern front against the troll invasion. Reinforcements from Silvermoon have yet to arrive, but how many priests are there even in the southern woods?”

Arthas understood then: though the elven Rangers fought valiantly against the trolls, support from Silvermoon City in the north was little more than words.

To facilitate cooperation in the upcoming battle, Lor’themar spoke candidly: “We still have fifteen hundred Rangers on the front lines, but over a hundred are wounded to varying degrees. Casualties are low; the trolls have not truly breached our lines.”

“I have brought five hundred elite infantry, one hundred elite knights, one hundred dwarven riflemen, ten paladins, and two archmages,” Arthas outlined his forces. “And, of course, the thirty priests.”

“That will strengthen our front considerably. Thank you again, Your Highness,” Lor’themar nodded approvingly. The reinforcements from Lordaeron were more substantial than he had expected.

However, Lor’themar noticed that Arthas seemed to have understated his numbers. He saw twenty black-armored knights whose presence did not match the counts Arthas had mentioned.

He chose not to inquire further, assuming these knights were the prince’s personal guards. Although their appearance differed somewhat from the Lordaeron royal guards he had known, it was not a matter of concern.

“Arthas, let us depart for the front lines immediately,” Uther said without intention to linger. “Words alone will not reveal the true state of the battlefield.”

“I agree,” Arthas nodded. “Lor’themar, how long to the front?”

“Just over two hours. If we push quickly, we can reach our position before sunset.”

“Very well.” Arthas mounted his horse and gave the command, “Warriors of Lordaeron, advance!”

The response came in the resonant clashing of weapons against shields and the dull thud of boots on earth.