Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (24 page)

…and the spectral fingers on her hands twitched for a moment, then curled up into angry fists.

It was oddly peaceful in Silverpine. Soft mists swirled gently near the moist, pine-needle-covered earth. Sylvanas knew that if she had possessed physical feet, she would have felt it soft and springy beneath them; would have inhaled a rich evergreen scent from the moist air. But she felt nothing, smelled nothing. She floated, insubstantial, toward the meeting site. And such was her eagerness for the meeting that at this moment she did not regret her lack of senses.

Arthas had enjoyed turning beautiful, proud, strong-willed quel’dorei women into banshees, after his “success” with her. He had given them to she who had been their ranger-general in life, to control and command, tossing her a bone like she was a faithful hound. He would shortly see how faithful a pet she was. After overhearing the dreadlords’ conversation earlier, she had sent one of her banshees after them to speak with them and gather information.

The demons had accepted her emissary with pleasure, and had asked for her mistress to join them tonight to discuss something of “mutual benefit regarding the Banshee Queen’s current status.”

In the depths of the forest, she could see a faint green glow, and floated toward it. Sure enough, they awaited her as they had said they would—three great demons turning to her, their wings flapping and betraying their agitation.

Balnazzar spoke first. “Lady Sylvanas, we are pleased that you came.”

“How could I not?” she responded. “For some reason I no longer hear the Lich King’s voice in my head. My will is my own once again.” It was indeed; and it was purely by that will that she kept the elation from her voice. She did not wish them to know more than she chose. “You dreadlords seem to know why.”

They exchanged glances, their faces curving into smiles. “We’ve discovered that the Lich King is losing his power,” Varimathras said, hellish glee in his voice. “As it wanes, so too does his ability to command undead such as you.”

That was good news indeed, if it were actually true. But it was not specific enough for Sylvanas. “And what of King Arthas?” she pressed, unable to keep a sneer out of her voice as she used the death knight’s title. “What about his powers?”

Balnazzar waved a black-clawed hand dismissively. “He will cease to annoy us, like a summerfly whose time has come and gone. Though his runeblade, Frostmourne, carries powerful enchantments, Arthas’s own powers will fade in time. It is inevitable.”

Sylvanas was not so certain. She, too, had once underestimated Arthas, and along with the cold hatred in her heart, she also bore guilt for her part in his blood-soaked victory. “You seek to overthrow him, and want my help to do it,” she said bluntly.

Detheroc, the one who appeared to be in charge, had stood quietly by while his brothers spoke to Sylvanas. They had been angry and impassioned, but his expression had remained neutral. Now, at last he spoke, in cold tones of utter loathing.

“The Legion may be defeated, but we are the nathrezim. We’ll not let some upstart human get the best of us.” He paused, looking at them each in turn. “Arthas must fall!”

The glowing green gaze settled upon Sylvanas. “As you have been watching us, little ghost, so have we been observing as well. It is obvious that the lich, Kel’Thuzad, is far too loyal to betray his master. There appears to be…affection between the two.” His gray lips curved in a dangerous smile. “But you, on the other hand…”

“Hate him.” She did not think she could hide that truth even if she wanted to, so fiercely did it burn inside her. “We are united in that much, dreadlord. I have my own reasons for seeking vengeance. Arthas murdered my people and turned me into this…monstrosity.” She paused for a moment, the loathing—of both Arthas and what he had done to her—so intense it took away her ability to speak. They waited, patiently, smugly.

They thought they could use her. They would be wrong.

“I may take part in your bloody coup, but I will do so in my own way.” She wanted them as allies, but they needed to know that she would be no toy. “I will not exchange one master for another. If you wish my aid, then you must accept that.”

Detheroc smiled. “We will slay the death knight together, then.”

Sylvanas nodded, and a slow smile crept across her ghostly face.

Your days have numbers, King Arthas Menethil. And I…I am the hourglass.

A
rthas rubbed his temple, going over and over the visions he had seen. Always before, communication from the Lich King had come only from Frostmourne. But the instant the crippling pain had struck him, Arthas had actually
seen
the being he served for the first time.

The Lich King was alone, in the middle of a vast cavern, as imprisoned in the unnatural ice as Frostmourne had been. But this had been no sleek covering of his form. The encasing ice had been fractured, as if someone had broken off a piece and left the jagged remains behind. Obscured by the ice as he was, the Lich King was imperfectly glimpsed, but his voice sliced in the death knight’s mind as he cried out in torment:

“Danger draws near the Frozen Throne! Power is fading…. Time is running out…. You must return to Northrend immediately!” And then, piercing Arthas like a lance in the gut: “
Obey!”

Each time it happened, Arthas felt dazed and sick. The power that had pumped through him like adrenaline when he was merely human was receding, taking with it more than it had originally given. He was weak and vulnerable…something he had never once imagined he would be when he first grasped Frostmourne and turned away from everything he thought he believed in. His face was greasy with sweat as he laboriously mounted Invincible and rode to meet Kel’Thuzad.

The lich was waiting for him, hovering, his fluttering robes and general demeanor somehow radiating concern.

“So the seizures have been getting worse?” he asked.

Arthas hesitated. Should he take the lich into his confidence? Would Kel’Thuzad attempt to wrest power from him? No, he decided. The former necromancer had never led him astray. Always, his loyalty was to the Lich King and Arthas himself.

The king nodded. He felt like his head would come off with the gesture. “Yes. With my powers drained, I can barely command my own warriors. The Lich King warned me that if I didn’t reach Northrend soon, all could be lost. We must depart quickly.”

If it was possible for blazing, empty eye sockets to exude worry, then Kel’Thuzad’s did so now. “Of course, Your Majesty. You have not and will not be forsaken. We will depart as soon as you believe you are—”

“There’s been a change of plans, King Arthas. You’re not going anywhere.”

It was evidence of his weakening powers that he had not even sensed them. Arthas stared, utterly taken by surprise as the three dreadlords surrounded him.

“Assassins!” cried Kel’Thuzad. “It’s a trap! Defend your king from those—”

But the sound of a gate slamming shut drowned out the lich’s call to action. Arthas drew Frostmourne. For the first time since he had touched, had bonded with the sword, it felt heavy and almost lifeless in his hands. The runes along its blade barely gleamed at all, and it felt more like a lump of metal than the well-balanced, beautiful weapon it had always been.

The undead rushed at him, and for a wild moment Arthas was catapulted back in time to his first encounter with the walking dead. He was again standing outside the little farmhouse, assaulted by the stench of decay and almost numbed with horror as things that should have been dead attacked him. He had long since moved past any horror or repugnance at their existence; indeed, he had come to think of them with affection. They were his subjects; he had cleansed them of life, to serve the great glory of the Lich King. It was not that they moved, or fought; it was that they fought
him.
They were utterly under the control of dreadlords. Grimly, using all the strength he yet possessed, he fought them back, a strange, sickening sensation filling him. He had never expected they would turn on him.

Over the sounds of the conflict, Balnazzar’s voice reached Arthas, the tone gloating. “You should never have returned, human. Weakened as you are, we have assumed control over the majority of your warriors. It seems your reign was short-lived,
King
Arthas.”

Arthas gritted his teeth and from somewhere deep inside him dredged up more energy, more will to fight. He would
not
die here.

But there were so many of them—so many that he had once nearly effortlessly directed and commanded, now turning implacably against him. He knew they were mindless, that they would obey whoever was the strongest. And yet somehow…it hurt. He’d
made
them….

He was growing increasingly weak, and at one point was even unable to block a blow directly to his midsection. The dull sword clanged against his armor, and he suffered no major wound, but that the ghoul had gotten past his defenses alarmed him.

“There are too many of them, my king!” Kel’Thuzad’s sepulchral voice said, the tenor of loyalty in it bringing unexpected tears to Arthas’s eyes. “Flee—escape from the city! I’ll find my way out and meet you in the wilderness. It is your only chance, my liege!”

He knew the lich was right. With a cry, Arthas clumsily dismounted. A wave of his hand and Invincible became insubstantial, a ghost horse instead of a skeletal one, and disappeared. Arthas would summon him again when he was safely away. He charged, gripping the enfeebled Frostmourne in both hands and swinging, no longer trying to kill or even wound his opponents—they were indeed too many—but simply to clear a path.

The gates were closed, but this palace was where he had grown to manhood, and he knew it intimately. Knew every gate, wall, and hidden passageway, and instead of heading for the gates, which he would be unable to raise by himself, he went deeper into the palace. The undead followed. Arthas raced through the back corridors that had once been the private quarters of the royal family, which he had once traversed with Jaina’s hand clasped tightly in his. He stumbled and his mind reeled.

How had he come to this moment—fleeing through an empty palace from his own creations, his subjects, whom he had vowed to protect. But no—he’d slain them. Betrayed his subjects for the power the Lich King offered. The power that was now bleeding from him as if from a wound that could not be closed.

Father…Jaina…

He closed his mind against the memories. Distractions would not serve him. Only speed and cunning would.

The narrow passageways limited the number of undead able to follow, and he was able to close and bolt the doors against them, delaying them. Finally he reached his quarters and the secret exit built into the wall. He, his parents, and Calia each had one…known only to them, Uther, and the bishop. All were gone now, save he, and Arthas pushed aside the hanging tapestry to reveal the small door hidden behind it, closing and bolting it behind him.

He ran, stumbling in his weakness, down the tight, twining staircase that would lead to his freedom. The door was both physically and magically disguised to look exactly like the main walls of the palace from the outside. Arthas, gasping, fumbled with the bolt and half fell out into the dim light of Tirisfal Glades. The sound of battle reached his ears and he looked up, catching his breath. He blinked, confused. The undead…were fighting one another.

Of course—some of them were still under his command. Were still his subjects—

His tools. His weapons. Not his subjects.

He watched for a moment, leaning against the cold stone. An abomination under the control of his enemy lopped off a long-eared head and sent it flying. A shiver of disgust went through him at the sight of both sets of undead. Decomposing, maggot-ridden, shambling things. No matter who controlled them, they were foul. A glimmer caught his eye; a forlorn little ghost, hovering timidly, who had once been an adolescent girl. Once been alive. He’d killed her, too, directly or indirectly. His
subject
. She seemed still connected to that world of the living. Seemed to remember what being human had once meant. He could use that; use her. He extended his hand to this floating, spectral thing he had made out of his lust for power.

“I have need of your abilities, little shade,” he said, pitching his voice to sound as kindly as possible. “Will you help me?”

Her face lit up and she floated to his side. “I live only to serve you, King Arthas,” she said, her voice still sweet despite its hollow echo. He forced himself to return her smile. It was easier, when they were simply rotting flesh. But this had its advantages, too.

Through sheer will, he summoned more and more of them, exerting himself so hard his breath came in gasps. They came. They would serve whoever was strongest. With a roar, Arthas descended upon those who would dare stand in the way of the destiny he had bought so dearly. But even as more came to his side, so did more come to attack him. Weak, so weak he was, with only these lumps of meat to protect him. He was shaking and gasping, heaving Frostmourne about with arms that grew increasingly weary. The earth trembled and Arthas whirled to behold no fewer than three abominations lumbering toward him.

Grimly, he lifted Frostmourne. He, Arthas Menethil, King of Lordaeron, would not go down without a fight.

Suddenly there was a flurry of motion, accompanied by anguished cries. Like the ghosts of birds, the blurs dipped and dove, harrying the monstrosities who paused in their pursuit of Arthas to bat and roar at the spectral figures, who suddenly seemed to dive right inside the creatures.

The slimy, white, maggoty things froze, and then abruptly turned their attention to the shambling ghouls that were attacking Arthas. A grin spread across the death knight’s pale face. The banshees. He had thought Sylvanas too lost in her hatred to come to his aid, or worse, like so many of his warriors, turned to become a pawn of his enemies. But it would seem that the former ranger-general’s irritation with him was spent.

With the aid of the banshee-possessed abominations, the tide quickly turned, and a few moments later Arthas stood, weaving with a sudden weakness over a pile of corpses that were truly dead. The abominations turned on one another and hacked themselves to grisly bits. Arthas wondered if even their creators could have sewn back what was left of them. As they fell to the earth, the spirits that had possessed them darted free.

“You have my thanks, my ladies. I am glad to see that you and your mistress remain among my allies.”

They hovered, their voices soft and haunting. “Indeed, great king. She sent us to find you. We’ve come to escort you across the river. Once we cross it we’ll take refuge in the wilderness.”

The wilderness—the same phrase Kel’Thuzad had used. Arthas relaxed even further. Clearly, his right and left hand were in agreement. He lifted a hand and concentrated. “Invincible, to me!” he called. A moment later a small patch of mist appeared, swirling and taking on the shape of a skeletal horse. A heartbeat later, Invincible was there in reality. Arthas was pleased to notice that the act took little effort; Invincible loved him. This was the one thing he had done completely right. The one dead thing that would never, ever turn against him, any more than the great animal would have done in its life. Carefully, he mounted, doing his best to hide his weakness from the banshees and the other undead.

“Lead me to your mistress and Kel’Thuzad, and I shall follow,” he said.

They did, floating away from the palace and deep into the heart of Tirisfal Glades. Arthas noticed with a sudden unease that the path they were taking led uncomfortably near the Balnir farm. Fortunately, the banshees veered off, heading into a hillier area and through there to a wide-open field.

“This is the place, sisters. We’ll rest here, great king.”

There was no sign of Sylvanas, nor of Kel’Thuzad. Arthas drew rein on Invincible, looking around. He felt a sudden prickling of apprehension. “Why here?” he demanded. “Where is your mistress?”

The pain descended again and he cried out, clutching his chest. Invincible pranced beneath him, anxious, and Arthas clung on for dear life. The gray-green glade went away, replaced by the blues and whites of the oddly broken Frozen Throne. The Lich King’s voice stabbed in his head and Arthas bit back a whimper.

“You have been deceived! Come to my side at once!
Obey!
”

“What is…happening here?” Arthas managed through gritted teeth. He blinked, forcing his vision to clear, and lifted his head, grunting with the effort.

She stepped out from behind the trees, carrying a bow. For a wild second, he thought he was back in Quel’Thalas, facing the living elf. But her hair was no longer golden, but black as midnight with streaks of white. Her skin was pale with a bluish tinge to it, and her eyes glowed silver. It was Sylvanas, and yet it was not. For this Sylvanas was neither alive, nor incorporeal. Somehow, she had gotten her body back from where he had ordered it left—safely locked in an iron coffin to be used as additional torment against her. But she had turned the tables on him.

As he struggled to make sense of what was happening through the pain, Sylvanas lifted her sleek black bow, drew, and took aim. Her lips curved in a smile.

“You walked right into this one, Arthas.”

She released the arrow.

It impaled his left shoulder, piercing through his armor as if it were as flimsy as parchment, adding a fresh type of agony. He was confused for an instant—Sylvanas was a master archer. She couldn’t possibly miss a fatal shot at this distance. Why the shoulder? His right hand went up automatically, but he found he couldn’t even curl his fingers around the shaft. They were becoming numb—as were his feet, his legs…

He flung himself onto Invincible’s neck, draping and doing what he could to cling to his mount with limbs that were rapidly becoming useless. He could barely turn his head to stare at her and rasp out the words, “Traitor! What have you done to me?”

She was smiling. She was happy. Slowly, languorously, she strode toward him. She was wearing the same outfit she had when he had killed her, revealing a great deal of her pale blue-white skin. Oddly, though, her body bore no scars from the innumerable wounds she had received on that day.

“It’s a special poisoned arrow I made just for you,” she said as she approached him. She shifted the bow to her back and drew a dagger, fingering it. “The paralysis you’re experiencing now is but a fraction of the agony you’ve caused me.”