Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (12 page)

The combined units of humans and dwarves made slow but inexorable progression toward the granary. The undead came more thickly as they approached, and by the time they saw silos looming in the distance, there were still more. He leaped from his unhappy mount and charged into their midst, gripping his hammer that glowed with the power of the Light. Now that the initial shock and horror had passed, Arthas found that slaughtering these monstrosities was even better than killing orcs. Maybe the orcs, as Jaina had said, were indeed people—were individuals. These things were nothing more than corpses, jerking around like marionettes, activated by some twisted necromantic puppeteer. They fell like puppets with the strings cut too and he smiled fiercely as two undead toppled from the same broad, sweeping blow of the mighty weapon.

These had been dead longer, it seemed; the stench around them was not so ripe, and the bodies were almost more mummified than decaying. Several of them, like those of the first wave, were nothing more than skeletons, bits of clothing or makeshift armor on their bony frames as they rattled toward Arthas and his men.

The acrid odor of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils and he grinned, grateful again for Jaina’s presence, and he still fought on. He glanced about, panting. Thus far he had lost not a single man, and Jaina, though pale with exertion, was unharmed.

“Arthas!” Jaina’s voice, strong and clear, pierced through the din. Arthas dispatched the carcass that was attempting to decapitate him with a scythe and in the brief pause that afforded him glanced at her. She was pointing up ahead, preparatory fire already glowing in her palms and limning her fingers. “Look!”

He turned his gaze to where she was pointing and his eyes narrowed. Up ahead was a cluster of humans—obviously living humans judging by their movements—clad in black. They were gesturing—casting, or pointing—clearly directing the movements of the waves of undead that were being hurled at them now.

“Over there! Target them!” Arthas cried.

The cannons were swung around and his men charged, hacking their way through the undead, their eyes fixed upon the living men in black robes.
We’ve got you now,
Arthas thought with savage delight.

But as soon as they came under fire directly, the men ceased their activities. The undead they had been controlling suddenly halted, still animated, but no longer directed. They were easy marks for the dwarven mortar fire and Arthas’s men, who cut them down with single blows and pushed forward. The magi gathered together and a few of them began casting, their hands fluttering, and Arthas recognized the familiar image of whirling space that indicated they were attempting to create a portal.

“No! Don’t let them escape!” he cried, slamming his hammer into the chest of a skeleton, bringing it back around in an arc to cave in the head of a shuffling zombie. From the Light only knew where, the wizards summoned more of the walking dead—skeletons, rotting corpses, and something that was huge and pale and had altogether too many limbs. Across its maggoty-white, glistening torso it sported stitches as wide as Arthas’s hand, looking like a disturbed child’s idea of a rag doll. It towered above the others, ghastly weapons clutched in its three hands, and fixed Arthas with a single working eye.

Jaina had somehow appeared by his side and cried, “By the Light—that creature looks like it was sewn together from different corpses!”

“Let’s study it
after
we kill it, okay?” Arthas shot back, and charged. The abominable experiment approached, uttering guttural noises and swinging an axe as big as Arthas was tall. He leaped out of the way, rolling and springing lightly back up on his feet to charge the monstrosity from behind. Three of his men, two with polearms, did the same, and the hideous thing was quickly dispatched. Even as he battled fiercely, he watched the magi out of the corner of his eye as they turned and rushed through their portal. And then they were gone. The undead they had abandoned all stopped in their tracks, undirected corpses that were quickly destroyed.

“Dammit!” Arthas cried. A hand fell on his arm and he jerked it back, his features softening slightly as he saw it was Jaina. He wasn’t in the mood for comforting or explanations, and he had to do something, anything, to compensate for the men in black robes vanishing on him. “Destroy that warehouse, now!”

“Aye, Yer Highness! Let’s go lads!” The dwarves surged forward, as eager as he to seize some kind of victory. The cannons rolled over the dead men and the dead soil, until they were within range.

“Fire!” Dargal cried. As one, the cannons roared, and Arthas felt a hot surge of pleasure as the granary crumbled beneath the assault.

“Jaina! Burn what’s left of it!” She was already lifting her hands before he started speaking; they did work well together, he thought. An enormous ball of crackling flame sprang from her hands, and the granary and its contents ignited immediately. They waited, watching it burn, so that the fire did not spread. With the land so desiccated, a fire could quickly get out of control.

Arthas ran a hand through his sweat-stiff blond hair. The heat coming off the burning granary was oppressive and he yearned for a breeze. He walked away a short distance, and prodded the fallen pale thing with a plated boot. His foot sank into the soft flesh and he wrinkled his nose. Jaina followed him. Upon closer examination, it looked like she had been right—that the thing was indeed cobbled together out of other body parts.

Arthas suppressed a shudder. “The magi—dressed in black…”

“I—I’m afraid they were necromancers,” Jaina said. “Just like we discussed earlier.”

“What noo?” Dargal had come up behind them and was eyeing the fallen abomination with disgust on his face.

“Necromancers. Magi who have dabbled in dark magic—who can raise and control the dead. Obviously, they and whomever they serve are behind this plague.” She lifted her serious blue eyes to Arthas. “Demonic energy may be involved, but I think it’s clear that we started down the wrong path.”

“Necromancers…creating a plague to get more raw material for their unholy army,” Arthas murmured, glancing back toward the now-smoking ruins of the granary. “I want them. No—no, I want their leader.” His gauntleted fists clenched. “I want that bastard who is deliberately slaughtering my people!” He thought about the crates they had seen earlier, and the seal they bore. He lifted his eyes and looked down the road. “And it’s a good bet that we’ll find him, and the answers we’re looking for, in Andorhal.”

A
rthas was pushing his men too hard and he knew it, but time was a precious resource and could not be squandered. He felt a tug of guilt when he saw Jaina chewing on some dried meat as they rode. The Light refreshed him when he worked with it; magi drew on different energies, and he knew that Jaina was exhausted after the superb effort she had put forth earlier. But there was no time for rest, not when thousands of lives depended upon their actions.

He’d been sent on a mission to find out what was going on and stop it. The mystery was starting to unravel, but he was beginning to doubt his ability to halt the plague. Nothing was as easy as it had looked at first. Still, Arthas would not give up.
Could
not give up. He had vowed to do whatever it took to stop this, to save his people, and so he would.

They saw and smelled the smoke rising in the sky before they reached the gates of Andorhal. Arthas hoped that if the town had burned, then maybe at least the grain had been destroyed as well, and then felt a twinge of guilt at the callousness of the thought. He buried it in action, kicking his mount hard and riding through the gates, expecting to be assaulted at any moment.

Around them buildings burned, black smoke stinging his eyes and making him cough. Through tear-filled eyes he peered around. There were no villagers, but neither were there any undead. What was—

“I believe you have come looking for me, children,” came a smooth voice. The wind shifted, driving the smoke in a different direction, and Arthas could now see a black-robed figure standing only a short distance away. Arthas tensed. This, then, was the leader. The necromancer was smiling now, his face dimly glimpsed in the shadow of his hood, a smirk that Arthas burned to cut off his face. Beside him were two of his pet undead. “You’ve found me. I am Kel’Thuzad.”

Jaina gasped in recognition at the name, and her hand flew to her mouth. Arthas spared her a quick glance, then returned his full attention to the speaker. He gripped his hammer tightly.

“I’ve come to deliver a warning,” said the necromancer. “Leave well enough alone. Your curiosity will be the death of you.”

“I thought this magic taint felt familiar!” It was Jaina, her voice shaking with outrage. “You were disgraced, Kel’Thuzad, precisely for your experiments along this line! We told you it would lead to disaster. And you have learned nothing!”

“Lady Jaina Proudmoore,” Kel’Thuzad purred. “Looks like Antonidas’s little apprentice is all grown up. And quite the contrary my dear…as you can see, I have learned a great deal.”

“I saw the rats you experimented with!” Jaina cried. “That was bad enough—but now you—”

“Have furthered my research and perfected it,” Kel’Thuzad answered.

“Are you responsible for this plague, necromancer?” Arthas shouted. “Is this cult your doing?”

Kel’Thuzad turned to him, his eyes glittering in the shadow of his cowl. “I ordered the Cult of the Damned to distribute the plagued grain. But the sole credit is not mine.”

Before Arthas could speak, Jaina had burst out, “What do you mean?”

“I serve the dreadlord Mal’Ganis. He commands the Scourge that will cleanse this land and establish a paradise of eternal darkness!”

A chill swept over Arthas despite the heat of the surrounding fires at the tone of the man’s voice. He did not know what a “dreadlord” was, but the meaning of “Scourge” was clear. “And what exactly is this Scourge meant to cleanse?”

The thin-lipped mouth beneath the white mustache again curled in a cruel smile. “Why, the living, of course. His plan is already in motion. Seek him out at Stratholme if you need further proof.”

Arthas had had enough of teasing hints and taunts. He growled, gripped the haft of his hammer, and charged forward. “For the Light!” he cried.

Kel’Thuzad had not moved. He stood his ground, then, at the last minute, the air around him twisted and puckered, and he was gone. The two creatures who had stood silently at his sides now clamped their arms on Arthas, trying to wrestle him down to the earth, their fetid stench vying with the smell of smoke to choke him. He twisted free, landing a strong, clean blow to the head of one of them. Its skull shattered like a fragile piece of blown glass, brains spattering the earth as it collapsed. The second was as easily dealt with.

“The granary!” he cried, running to his horse and leaping atop it. “Come on!”

The others mounted up and they charged down the main path through the burning village. The granaries loomed up ahead of them. They were untouched by the fire that seemed to be racing through the rest of Andorhal.

Arthas drew his horse up sharply and leaped off it, running as fast as he could toward the buildings. He pulled open the door, hoping desperately to see crates piled high. Grief and rage swept through him as the only thing to meet his gaze were empty chambers—empty save for small, scattered bits of grain and the corpses of rats on the floor. He stared, sick, for a moment, then raced to the next one, and the next, yanking the doors open even though he knew exactly what he would find.

They were all empty. And had been for some time, if the layers of dust on the floor and the spiderwebs in the corners were any indication.

“The shipments have already been sent out,” he said brokenly as Jaina stepped up beside him. “We’re too late!” He slammed his gauntleted fist into the wooden door and Jaina jumped. “Dammit!”

“Arthas, we did the best we—”

He whirled on her furiously. “I’m going to find him. I’m going to find that undead-loving bastard and rip him limb from limb for this! Let
him
get someone to sew him back together.”

He stormed out, shaking. He’d failed. He’d had the man right there and he’d failed. The grain had been sent out, and Light alone knew how many people would die because of that.

Because of
him.

No. He was not going to let that happen. He would protect his people. He would die to protect them. Arthas clenched his fists.

“North,” he said to the men who trailed behind him, unaccustomed to seeing their generally good-natured prince in the grip of such fury. “That’s the next place he’ll go. Let’s exterminate him like the vermin he is.”

He rode like a man possessed, galloping north, almost absently slaughtering the shambling wrecks of human beings who attempted to stop him. He was no longer moved by the horror of it all; his mind’s eye was filled with the vision of the man manipulating it and the disgusting cult that perpetrated it. The dead would rest soon enough; Arthas had to ensure that no more would be made.

At one point there was a huge cluster of the undead. Rotting heads lifted as one, turning toward Arthas and his men, and they moved toward him. Arthas cried out, “For the Light!”, kicked his steed, and charged in among them, swinging his hammer and crying out incoherently, venting his anger and frustration on these, the perfect targets. At one point, there was a lull, and he was able to look around.

Safe and secure away from the field of battle, overseeing everything while risking nothing, stood a tall figure in a fluttering black cloak. As if waiting for them.

Kel’Thuzad.

“There!” he cried. “He’s there!”

Jaina and his men followed him, Jaina blasting clear passage with fireball after fireball, and his men hacking the undead that did not fall in the first round of attacks. Arthas felt righteous fury singing in his veins as he drew closer and closer to the necromancer. His hammer rose and fell, seemingly effortlessly, and he didn’t even see those he struck down. His eyes were fixed on the man—if you could even call such a monster that—responsible for everything in the first place. Cut off the head, and the beast would die.

Then Arthas was there. A bellow of raw fury exploded from him and he swung, sweeping his brilliantly glowing hammer parallel to the ground, striking Kel’Thuzad at the knees and sending him flying. Others pressed in, swords slicing and hacking, the men venting their grief and outrage on the source, the cause, of the entire disaster.

For all his power and magic, it seemed as though Kel’Thuzad could indeed die like any other man. Both legs were shattered by Arthas’s sweeping blow and lay at odd angles. His robes were wet with blood, shiny black against a matte black, and red trickled from his mouth. He propped himself up on his arms and tried to speak, spitting out blood and teeth. He tried again.

“Naïve…fool,” he managed, swallowing. “My death will make little difference in the long run…for now…the scourging of this land…begins.”

His elbows buckled and, eyes closing, he fell.

The body began to rot immediately. Decomposition that should have taken days happened in mere seconds, the flesh paling, bloating, bursting open. The men gasped and started back, covering their noses and mouths. Some of them turned and vomited from the stench. Arthas stared, horrified and enraptured at the same time, unable to look away. Fluids gushed from the corpse, the flesh taking on a creamy consistency and turning black. The unnatural decomposition slowed and Arthas turned away, gasping for fresh air.

Jaina was deathly pale with dark circles around her wide, shocked eyes. Arthas went to her and turned her away from the disgusting image. “What happened to him?” he asked quietly.

Jaina swallowed, trying to calm herself. Again, she seemed to find strength in her detachment. “It is believed that, ah, if necromancers are not perfectly precise in their magical workings that, um…if they are killed they are subject to…” Her voice trailed off and suddenly she was a young woman, looking sickened and shocked. “That.”

“Come on,” Arthas said gently. “Let’s get to Hearthglen. They need to be warned—if we’re not too late already.”

They left the body where it had fallen, not granting it another glance. Arthas said a silent prayer to the Light that they were not too late. He did not know what he would do if he failed again.

Jaina was exhausted. She knew that Arthas wanted to make the best time possible, and she shared his concern. Lives were at stake. So when he asked her if she could go through the night without stopping, she nodded.

They had been riding hard for four hours when she found herself half off her mount. She was so bone-weary she’d fallen unconscious for a few seconds. Fear shot through her and she grabbed onto the horse’s mane wildly, pulling herself back up into the saddle and yanking on the reins so the horse would stop.

She sat there, the reins clutched in her hands, trembling, for several minutes before Arthas realized she’d fallen behind. Dimly she heard him calling a halt. She looked up at him mutely as he cantered up to her.

“Jaina, what’s wrong?”

“I…I’m sorry Arthas. I know you want to make good time and so do I, but—I was so tired I almost fell off. Could we stop, for just a little while?”

She saw the concern for her and frustration at the situation warring on his face, even in the dim light. “How long do you think you’ll need?”

A couple of days,
she wanted to say, but instead she said, “Just long enough to eat something and rest for a bit.”

He nodded, reaching up to her and helping her off the horse. He bore her to the side of the road, where he set her down gently. Jaina fished in her pack for some cheese with hands that trembled. She expected him to head off and talk to the men, but instead he sat down beside her. Impatience radiated from him like heat from a fire.

She took a bite of cheese and looked up at him as she chewed, analyzing his profile in the starlight. One of the things she most loved about Arthas was how accessible, how human and emotional, he was to her. But now, while he was certainly in the grip of powerful emotions, he felt distant, as if he was a hundred miles away.

Impulsively she reached a hand to touch his face. He started at her touch, as if he had forgotten she was there, then smiled thinly at her. “Done?” he asked.

Jaina thought about the single bite she had eaten. “No,” she said, “but…Arthas, I’m worried about you. I don’t like what this is doing to you.”

“Doing to
me
?” he snapped. “What about what it’s doing to the villagers? They’re dying and then getting turned into corpses, Jaina. I have to stop it, I
have
to!”

“Of course we do, and I’ll do everything I can to help; you know that. But…I’ve never seen you hate anything like this.”

He laughed, a short harsh bark. “You want me to love necromancers?”

She frowned. “Arthas, don’t twist my words like that. You’re a paladin. A servant of the Light. You’re a healer as much as a warrior, but all I see in you is this desire to wipe out the enemy.”

“You’re starting to sound like Uther.”

Jaina didn’t reply. She was so weary, it was difficult to compose her thoughts. She took another bite of cheese, focusing on getting the badly needed nourishment into her body. For some reason it was hard for her to swallow.

“Jaina…I just want innocent people to stop dying. That’s all. And…I admit, I’m upset that I can’t seem to make that happen. But once this is over, you’ll see. Everything will be fine again. I promise.”

He smiled down at her, and for a moment she saw the old Arthas in his handsome face. She smiled back in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion.

“Are you done now?”

Two bites. Jaina put the rest of the cheese away. “Yes, I’m done. Let’s keep going.”

The sky was turning from black to the ashy gray of dawn when they first heard the gunfire. Arthas’s heart sank. He spurred his horse as they wound their way north up the long road that cut through the deceptively pleasant hills. Just outside the gates of Hearthglen, they saw several men and dwarves armed with rifles—all trained on them. Wafted to him on the light breeze, mixed in with the smell of gunpowder, was the incongruously pleasant, slightly sweet scent of baking bread.

“Hold your fire!” Arthas cried as his troops galloped up. He drew rein so hard his mount reared in startlement. “I am Prince Arthas! What’s going on? Why are you so armed?”

They lowered their rifles, clearly surprised to see their prince standing right in front of them. “Sir, you won’t believe what’s been going on.”

“Try me,” Arthas said.