Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (20 page)

“You’ll die for that promise.”

“Possibly.” It didn’t seem to bother Uther much. “I’d rather die honoring that promise than live at your mercy. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad he doesn’t have to see what you’ve become.”

The remark…hurt. Arthas hadn’t expected it to. He paused, emotions warring within him, and Uther, ever the better in their bouts, used that brief hesitation to charge forward. “For the Light!” he cried, pulling the hammer back and swinging it at Arthas with all his strength. The gleaming weapon arced at Arthas so swiftly he could hear the sound of its movement.

He leaped aside, barely in time, and felt the air brush his face as the weapon rushed past. Uther’s expression was calm and focused…and deadly. It was his duty as he saw it to slay the betraying son, and stop the spread of evil.

Just as Arthas knew it was his duty to slay the man who had once mentored him. He needed to kill his past…all of his past. Or else it would forever reach out with the deceptively sweet hope of compassion and forgiveness. With an incoherent cry, Arthas brought Frostmourne down.

Uther’s hammer blocked it. The two men strained, their faces within inches of each other, the muscles in their arms shaking with effort, until with a grunt Uther shoved Arthas backward. The younger man stumbled. Uther pressed the attack. His face was calm, but his eyes were fierce and resolute, and he seemed to fight as if his victory was inevitable. The utter confidence shook Arthas. His own blows were powerful, but erratic. He’d never been able to best Uther before—

“It ends here, boy!” Uther cried, his voice ringing. Suddenly to Arthas’s horror the paladin was limned in a glowing, brilliant light. Not just his hammer, but his entire body, as if he himself was the true weapon of the Light that would strike Arthas down. “For the Light’s justice!”

The hammer descended. All the air in Arthas’s body was knocked out of him with a rush as the blow landed straight and true across his midsection. Only his armor saved him, and even that crumpled beneath the glowing hammer wielded by the holy, radiant paladin. Arthas went sprawling, Frostmourne flying from his grip, agony shooting through him as he struggled to breathe, struggled to rise. The Light—he had turned his back on it, had betrayed it. And now it was exacting retribution through Uther the Lightbringer, its greatest champion, infusing his old teacher with the purity of its brilliance and purpose.

The glow enveloping Uther increased, and Arthas grimaced in agony as the Light seared his eyes as well as his soul. He’d been wrong to forsake it, horribly wrong, and now its mercy and love had been transformed into this radiant, implacable being. He stared upward into the white light that was Uther’s eyes, tears filling his own as he awaited the killing blow.

Had he grasped the sword without realizing it, or had it leaped into his hands of its own volition? In the swirling mental chaos that was that moment, Arthas could not tell. All he knew was that suddenly, his hands were closing on Frostmourne’s hilt, and its voice was in his mind.

Every Light has its shadow—every day has its night—and even the brightest candle can be snuffed out.

And so can the brightest life.

He let out a gulping inhalation, sucking breath into his lungs, and for just a second, Arthas saw the Light enveloping Uther dim. Then Uther lifted the hammer again, ready to deal the killing blow.

But Arthas was not there.

If Uther was a bear, enormous and powerful, Arthas was a tiger, strong and coiled and swift. The hammer, strong and Light-blessed though it and its weilder might be, was not a fast weapon, nor was Uther’s style of fighting. Frostmourne, however, though it was an enormous two handed runeblade, seemed to almost be able to fight on its own.

He moved forward again, no hesitancy this time, and began to fight in earnest. He gave no quarter as he attacked Uther the Lightbringer; offered no moment’s breathing space for the paladin to draw back the weapon to deliver a crushing blow. Uther’s eyes widened with shock, then narrowed in determination. But the Light that had once surged so brightly from his powerful frame was diminishing with each passing second.

Diminishing before the power granted to him by the Lich King.

Again and again Frostmourne landed—here on the hammer’s glowing head, here on the shaft, here on Uther’s shoulder, in that narrow space between gorget and shoulder pauldrons, biting deep—

Uther grunted and staggered back. Blood poured from the wound. Frostmourne craved more, and Arthas wanted to give it more.

Snarling like a beast, his white hair flying, he pressed the attack. The hammer, great and glowing, fell from Uther’s nerveless fingers as Frostmourne nearly severed the arm. A blow dented Uther’s breastplate; a second in the same spot cleaved it and tore at the flesh beneath. Uther’s tabard, the blue and gold of the Alliance he had once fought for, fluttered to the snow-covered earth in pieces as Uther the Lightbringer fell heavily to his knees. He looked up. His breathing came with difficulty. Blood trickled from his mouth, seeping into his beard, but there was no hint of surrender on his face.

“I dearly hope that there’s a special place in hell waiting for you, Arthas.” He coughed, the blood bubbling up.

“We may never know, Uther,” Arthas said coldly, lifting Frostmourne for the final blow. The sword nearly sang in anticipation. “I intend to live forever.”

He brought the runeblade straight down, through Uther’s throat, silencing the defiant words, piercing the great heart. Uther died almost immediately. Arthas tugged the blade free and stepped back, shaking. Surely, it was only from the release of tension and exultation.

He knelt and picked up the urn. He held it for a long moment, then slowly broke the seal and tipped the jar over, pouring out its contents. The ashes of King Terenas fell like gray rain, like plagued flour, drifting down onto the snow. Abruptly, the wind shifted. The gray powder that was all that was left of a king suddenly took flight, as if animated, whirling to shower the death knight. Startled, Arthas took a step backward. His hands automatically came up to shield his face, and he dropped the urn, which landed with a dull thunk on the ground. He shut his eyes and turned away, but not quickly enough, and began to cough violently, the ashes acrid and choking. Abruptly, panic seized him. His gauntleted hands came up to swipe at his face, trying to wipe off the fine powder that clogged his throat and nose and stung his eyes. He spat, and for a moment his stomach roiled.

Arthas took a deep breath and forced calm upon himself. A moment later, he rose, composed once again. If he felt anything at all, he had locked it so deep he did not know it. Stone-faced, he returned to the wagon that bore the reeking, nearly liquid remains of Kel’Thuzad and shoved it at one of the Scourge.

“Put the necromancer in here,” he ordered.

He mounted Invincible.

Quel’Thalas was not far.

D
uring the six days it took to reach the high elven lands, Arthas spoke with the shade of Kel’Thuzad and gathered many, many more to his side.

From Andorhal eastward he went, the meat wagons grinding along in his wake, past the little hamlets of Felstone Field, Dalson’s Orchard, and Gahrron’s Quickening, across the Thondroril River into the eastern part of Lordaeron. Risen plague victims were everywhere, and a simple mental command brought them to heel like faithful hounds. Care of them was easy—they fed on the dead. It was very…tidy.

These Arthas was expecting to come to his side; the plague victims, the abominations sewn together of many parts, the ghosts of the fallen. But a new ally joined him—one that startled, appalled, and then delighted him.

His army was halfway to Quel’Thalas when he first saw them. Far in the distance, it first appeared as if the earth itself was moving. No, that wasn’t right. These were beasts, of a sort. Cattle or sheep, that had broken out of their pens when their owners turned into the walking dead? Bears or wolves, foraging and feasting on corpses? And then Arthas gasped and grasped Frostmourne tightly, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

They did not move like four-legged creatures. They scuttled, scurried, moving over the hills and grasses like—

“Spiders,” he murmured.

Now they poured down the slopes, purple and black and dangerous-looking, multiple legs scurrying quickly to bear them to Arthas. They were coming for him—they—

“These are the new warriors the Lich King sends to his favored one,” came Kel’Thuzad’s voice. The ghost apparently could be heard and seen only by Arthas, and he had been doing a great deal of talking in the last few days. He had recently focused on sowing the seeds of suspicion in the death knight’s mind. Not of himself—of Tichondrius and the other demons. “The dreadlords cannot be trusted,” he had said. “They are the Lich King’s jailors. I will tell you all…when I walk this world again.”

They had had enough time; Arthas wondered if Kel’Thuzad was dangling the information in front of him like bait, to ensure that Arthas completed the task.

Now Arthas asked, “He sent these…to me? What are they?”

“They once were nerubians,” Kel’Thuzad said. “Descendants of an ancient and proud race called the aqir. In life, they were fiercly intelligent, their will dedicated to wiping out any who were not like themselves.”

Arthas eyed the arachnid creatures with a shiver of disgust. “Lovely. And now?”

“Now, these are those who fell battling the one we serve. He has raised them and their lord, Anub’arak, into undeath, and now they come to aid you, Prince Arthas. To serve his glory and yours.”

“Undead spiders,” Arthas mused. They were huge, hideous, deadly. They came chittering and scuttling, merging into step with the corpses, specters, and abominations. “To fight the elves of Quel’Thalas.”

This Lich King, whomever he was, had a flair for the dramatic.

Arthas’s coming, of course, was witnessed. The elves bred notoriously fine scouts. Chances were by the time Arthas himself noticed them, word had already gone ahead. It didn’t matter. The force he had assembled had grown to a truly impressive size, and he had no doubt, despite Kel’Thuzad’s fretful warnings, that he would be able to gain entry into the wondrous, eternal land, move through it swiftly, and reach the Sunwell.

They had captured a prisoner, a young priest who in an act of defiance had inadvertently revealed some important information. Arthas would use the information wisely and well. Too, there was another, one who, unlike the priest, would willingly betray his people and their land for the power that Arthas and the Lich King had promised him.

It surprised the death knight how readily this elven mage had turned. Surprised, and unsettled him. Arthas had once been loved by his people, as his father before him had been. He had enjoyed basking in the warm approval from those who served under him. He had taken time to learn their names, to listen to stories of their families. He had wanted them to love him. And they had, following him loyally, as Captain Falric had done.

But Arthas had to assume that the elven leaders, too, loved their people. Assumed, as Arthas assumed, that they would stay loyal. And yet this mage had betrayed his people for nothing more than the mere promise of power, the simple, glittering allure of it.

Mortals could be corrupted. Mortals could be swayed, or bought.

He looked over his current army and smiled. Yes…this was better. There was no question of loyalty when those he led could do nothing but obey.

“It is true,” the scout gasped. “All of it.”

Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, knew this elf well. Kelmarin’s information was always accurate and detailed. She listened, wanting to disbelieve, knowing she did not dare.

They had all heard the rumors, of course. That some sort of plague had begun to creep across the human lands. But the quel’dorei had thought themselves safe here in their homeland. It had withstood attacks from dragons, orcs, and trolls over the centuries. Surely, what was occurring in the human lands would not touch them.

Except it had.

“You are sure it is Arthas Menethil? The prince?”

Kelmarin nodded, still catching his breath. “Aye, my lady. I heard him called so by those who served him. I do not think the rumors painting him as the slayer of his father and the instigator of the troubles in Lordaeron are exaggerations, from what I have seen.”

Sylvanas listened, her blue eyes widening, as the scout spun a tale that sounded too fantastical to be believed. Risen corpses, both fresh and desiccated. Enormous, mindless patchwork creations of various body parts; strange beasts who could fly and looked like stone creations come to life; giant spiderlike beings that reminded her of tales of the thought-vanished aqir. And the smell—Kelmarin, who was not given to exaggeration, spoke in halting tones about the reek that preceded the army. The forests, the first bastion of defense of the land, were falling beneath the strange engines of war he had brought with him. Sylvanas thought back to the red dragons, which had set the woods aflame not so very long ago. Silvermoon had endured, of course, but the woodlands had suffered terribly. As they were suffering now….

“My lady,” Kelmarin finished, lifting his head and giving her a stricken gaze. “If he breaks through—I do not think we have the numbers to defeat him.”

The bitter statement gave her the anger she needed. “We are quel’dorei,” she snapped, straightening. “Our land is impregnable. He will not enter. Do not fear. He must first know
how
to break the enchantments that protect Quel’Thalas. Then he must be able to do so. Better and wiser foes than he have tried to take our realm ere now. Have faith, my friend. In the Sunwell’s strength…and in the strength and will of our people.”

As Kelmarin was led off to where he could drink and eat and recover before returning to his post, Sylvanas turned to her rangers. “I would see this human prince for myself. Summon the first battle units. If Kelmarin is correct…we should prepare for a preemptive strike.”

Sylvanas lay atop the great gate that, along with the jagged ring of mountains, helped protect her land. She wore full but comfortable leather armor, and her bow was slung across her back. She and Sheldaris and Vor’athil, the other two scouts who had gone on ahead and had waited for her to come with the bulk of the rangers, stared, aghast. As Kelmarin had warned, they had smelled the reek of the decaying army long before they had seen them.

Prince Arthas rode atop a skeletal horse with fiery eyes, a huge sword that she recognized at once as a runeblade strapped to his back. Humans in dark clothing scurried to obey his commands. So did the dead. Sylvanas choked back bile as her gaze roved over the collection of various rotting corpses, and she was silently thankful that the wind had shifted and was now blowing the stench away from her.

She signaled her plan, long fingers moving quickly, and the scouts nodded. They slipped back, silent as shadows, and Sylvanas turned her eyes toward Arthas. He did not seem to have noticed anything. He looked human, still, though pale, and his hair was white instead of golden, as she recalled it had been described to her. How then, could he stand this? Being surrounded by the dead—the horrible stench, the grotesque images…

She shuddered and instructed herself to focus. The undead who obeyed him simply stood, awaiting orders. The humans—necromancers, Sylvanas thought, a wave of loathing rushing through her—were too busy creating new monstrosities to post lookouts. They could not conceive of defeat.

Their arrogance would be their undoing.

She waited, watching, until her archers were in position. Forewarned by Kelmarin, she had summoned fully two thirds of her rangers. She believed firmly that Arthas could not breech the magical elfgates that protected Quel’Thalas. There was too much he could not possibly know about them to do so. Still…she had also not believed things that her eyes now told her was truth. Better to wipe out the threat here and now.

She glanced at Sheldaris and Vor’athil. They caught her gaze and nodded. They were ready. Sylvanas yearned to simply strike, to take the enemy unawares, but honor forbade it. There would be no tales sung of how Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner defended her homeland by underhanded means.

“For Quel’Thalas,” she whispered underneath her breath, and then stood.

“You are not welcome here!” she cried, her voice clear and musical and strong. Arthas turned his skeletal steed—Sylvanas spared a moment to pity the poor beast—and faced her, peering at her intently. The necromancers fell silent, turning to their lord, awaiting instructions.

“I am Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon. I advise you to turn back now.”

Arthas’s lips—gray, she noticed, gray in a white face, although she knew somehow he yet lived—curled back in a smile. He was amused.

“It is you who should turn back, Sylvanas,” he said, deliberately omitting her title. His voice would have been a pleasant baritone had it not been underscored by…something. Something that made even her fierce heart stop for a moment as she heard it. She forced herself not to shiver. “Death itself has come to your land.”

Her blue eyes narrowed. “Do your worst,” she challenged. “The elfgate to the inner kingdom is protected by our most powerful enchantments. You shall not pass.”

She nocked her bow—the signal for the attack. An instant later, the air was filled with the sudden hum of dozens of arrows in flight. Sylvanas had taken aim for the human—or once-human—prince, and her aim was as true as ever. The arrow sang as it sped toward Arthas’s unprotected head. But an instant before it struck, she saw a flash of blue-white.

Sylvanas stared. More swiftly than she could fathom, Arthas had brought up his sword, the runes in it emitting that cold blue-white glow, and sliced the arrow in two. He grinned at her and winked.

“To battle, my troops—slay them all, that they may serve me and my lord!” Arthas cried. His voice echoed with that strange thrum of power. She growled deep in her throat and took aim again. But he was in motion now, the dead horse bearing him with unnatural swiftness, and she realized that his horrific troops were on the offensive now.

She thought of a swarm of insects as they converged, perfect in their mindless unity, upon her rangers. The archers had their instructions—cut down the living first, and then dispatch the dead with arrows set aflame. The first volley of arrows dropped nearly every single one of the cultists. The second saw dozens of blazing arrows embedded in the walking corpses. But even as they stumbled about, some of them almost tinder-dry, others moist and rotting, the sheer number of them began to turn the tide.

They somehow managed to scramble up the nearly-vertical walls of earth and stone where her rangers were positioned. Some of them, mercifully, were too decayed to get far, their rotting limbs ripping from their bodies and causing them to fall. But the fall did not halt them. They pressed onward, upward, toward her rangers who now had to wield swords instead of arrows. They were trained warriors, of course, and could fight in close quarters. Fight against foes who could be slowed by the loss of blood, or limbs. But against these—

Dead hands, more like claws than fingers, reached out to Sheldaris. Grim faced, the red-haired ranger fought fiercely, her lips moving in cries of defiance that Sylvanas could not hear. But they were closing in on her, ringing her, and Sylvanas felt a deep pain as she watched Sheldaris fall beneath them.

She drew and fired, drew and fired, almost quicker than thought, focusing on her duty. Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the grotesque winged creatures, its skin gray and appearing as hard as stone, swoop down within ten feet of her. Its batlike face snarled in glee as it reached down and, as easily as she might pluck ripe fruit from the tree, snatched Vor’athil and bore him aloft. Its fingers dug deeply into the scout’s shoulders, and blood spattered on Sylvanas as the thing swooped upward with its prize.

Vor’athil struggled in the creature’s grasp, his fingers finding and freeing a dagger. Sylvanas turned her aim from the groaning undead below her to the monstrosity above. She fired, right at the creature’s neck.

The arrow glanced off harmlessly. The creature tossed its head and snarled, tiring of toying with Vor’athil. It lifted one hand and raked its claws across the scout’s throat, then dropped him carelessly and circled back for more.

Grieving silently, Sylvanas watched her friend fall lifeless to the earth, his body striking the pile of dead cultists her rangers had slain moments earlier.

And then she gasped.

The cultists were moving.

Arrows protruding from their bodies, sometimes over a dozen brightly fletched missiles in a single corpse, and yet they stirred.

“No,” she whispered, sickened. Her horrified gaze went to Arthas.

The prince was looking straight at her, grinning that damnable grin. One powerful, gauntleted hand grasped the runeblade. The other was lifted in a beckoning gesture, and as she watched, yet another slain human stirred and shambled to its feet, pulling out the arrow from its eye as if it were plucking a burr from its clothing. Her attack had cost Arthas nothing. Any who fell would be raised by his dark magic. He saw the realization and the anger in her eyes, and the grin turned into a laugh.