Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (25 page)

Arthas swallowed. His mouth was dry as sand. “Finish me, then.”

She threw back her head and laughed, hollow and ghostly. “A quick death…like the one you gave me?” Her mirth faded as quickly as it had come, and her eyes flashed red. She continued her approach until she was only an arm’s length away. Invincible pranced uncertainly at her proximity, and Arthas’s heart lurched as he almost slipped off.

“Oh no. You have taught me well, Arthas Menethil. You taught me about the folly of showing mercy to my enemies, and the delight of exacting torment from them. And so, my tutor, I’ll show you how well I learned those lessons. You’re going to suffer as I did. Thanks to my arrow, you can’t even run.”

Arthas’s eyes seemed to be the only thing that could move, and he watched helplessly as she lifted the dagger. “Give my regards to hell, you son of a bitch.”

No. Not this way—not paralyzed and helpless…Jaina…

Sylvanas suddenly staggered back, the pale hand that clutched the dagger twisting and opening. The look on her face was utter astonishment. A heartbeat later, the little shade that had come to Arthas’s aid earlier materialized, smiling happily at the thought that she had helped to save her king. Happy to serve.

“Back, you mindless ones! You shall not fall today, my king!”

Kel’Thuzad! He had come as he had promised, finding Arthas all the way out here where the traitorous banshee had lured him. And he had not come alone. Well over a dozen undead were with him, and they now launched themselves at Sylvanas and her banshees. Hope rose inside him, but he was still paralyzed, still unable to move. He watched as the fight raged around him, and in a few moments it was obvious that Sylvanas would need to retreat.

She shot him a look, and again her eyes flashed red. “This isn’t over, Arthas! I’ll
never
stop hunting you.”

Arthas was looking directly at her as she seemed to melt into the shadows. The last parts of her to vanish were her crimson eyes. With their mistress gone, the other banshees under Sylvanas’s command disappeared as well. Kel’Thuzad hastened to Arthas’s side.

“Did she harm you, my liege?”

Arthas could only stare at him, the paralysis so far gone he could not even move his lips. Bony hands folded with surprising delicacy around the arrow and tugged. Arthas bit back a cry of pain as the arrow came free. His red blood was mixed with a gooey black substance, which Kel’Thuzad examined carefully.

“The effects of her arrow will wear off in time. It seems the poison was meant only to immobilize you.”

Of course, Arthas thought; otherwise she would not have needed the dagger. Relief shuddered through him, leaving him even more exhausted. He had come very close—too close—to his death. If not for the loyalty of the lich, the elf would have had him. He tried again to speak and managed, “I—you saved me.”

Kel’Thuzad inclined his horned head. “I am grateful I could be of assistance, my king. But you must hasten from this place, to Northrend. All the preparations for your journey have been made. What is it you would have of me?”

Kel’Thuzad had been right. Even now, Arthas was beginning to feel some semblance of life returning to his limbs, though not enough that he could move under his own power.

“I need to find the Lich King as soon as possible. Much longer and…I don’t know what the future holds, or if I’ll even return, but I want you to watch over this land. See to it that my legacy endures.”

He trusted the lich, not out of affection or loyalty, but simply as a cold, hard fact. Kel’Thuzad was an undead thing, bound to the master they both served. Arthas’s eyes flitted to the little ghost, hovering, smiling, a few feet away, and to the slack-faced, rotting corpses who would walk off a cliff if he told them to.

Just dead meat and sundered spirits. Not subjects. And they never had been. No matter what the little shade’s smile said.

“You honor me, my liege. I shall do as you ask, King Arthas. I shall.”

She had a body now, what her own had once been, though changed, as she had been changed. Sylvanas walked with the same easy stride she had had in life, wore the same armor. But it was not the same. She was forever, irrevocably altered.

“You seem troubled, mistress.”

Sylvanas started from her reverie and turned to the banshee, one of the many who floated beside her. She could float with them, but she preferred the heaviness, the solidity, of the corporeal form she had stolen back for herself.

“Aren’t you, sister?” she answered curtly. “Only days ago we were the Lich King’s slaves. We existed only to slaughter in his name. And now we are…free.”

“I don’t understand, mistress.” The banshee’s voice was hollow and confused. “Our wills are our own now. Is that not what you fought for? I thought you’d be overjoyed.”

Sylvanas laughed, aware that it was perilously close to hysteria. “What joy is there in this curse? We are still undead, sister—still monstrosities.” She extended a hand, examined the blue-gray flesh, noticed the cold that clung to her like a second skin. “What are we if not slaves to this torment?”

He had taken so much. Even if she extended his death over a period of days…weeks…she would never be able to make Arthas suffer sufficiently. His death would not bring back the dead, cleanse the Sunwell, nor restore her to her living, peach-and-gold self. But it would feel…very good.

He had eluded her at their confrontation several days past. His lackey, the lich, had come at precisely the wrong moment. Arthas had gone far beyond her grasp now, trying to heal himself. She had learned that he’d left Kel’Thuzad in control of these plagued lands. But that was all right. She was dead. She had all the time in the world to plot an exquisite revenge.

A movement caught her eye and she got gracefully to her feet, drawing the bow and nocking it in one single, swift movement. The swirling portal opened and Varimathras stood there, grinning patronizingly down at her.

“Greetings, Lady Sylvanas.” The demon actually bowed. Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. She did not for a minute think he meant it. “My brothers and I appreciate the role you played in overthrowing Arthas.”

The role she played. Like this was some sort of theatrical game.

“Overthrow? I suppose one could call it that. He has scurried away, that much is sure.”

The mighty being shrugged, his wings spreading slightly with the gesture. “Either way, he no longer troubles us. I’ve come to offer you a formal invitation to join our new order.”

A “new order.” Not very new at all, she mused; same subjugation, different master. She could not have been less interested.

“Varimathras,” she said coldly. She did not bow in return. “My only interest was in seeing Arthas dead. Since I failed in my first attempt at this goal, I now wish to concentrate my efforts on succeeding the next time. I have no time for your petty politics or power mongering.”

The demon bridled. “Careful, milady. It would be unwise to incur our wrath. We are the future of these…Plaguelands. You can either join us and rule, or be cast aside.”

“You? The future? Kel’Thuzad did not go with his precious Arthas. He was left here for a reason. But perhaps a lich reborn by the very essence of the mighty Sunwell is nothing to beings as powerful as you.” Her voice dripped scorn, and the dreadlord frowned terribly.

“I’ve lived as a slave long enough, dreadlord.” Funny, how one used the word “lived,” even though one was dead. Old habits died hard, it would seem. “I have fought tooth and nail to become more than what that bastard made me. I have my own will now, and I choose my own path. The Legion is defeated. You are the last pathetic remnants. You are a dying breed. I won’t relinquish my freedom by shackling myself to you fools.”

“So be it,” Varimathras hissed. He was furious. “Our reply will come soon.”

He teleported out, his face twisted in a scowl.

Her needling had gotten to him, and he fairly quivered with outrage. She noted this dispassionately. He was easy to anger; he was the one they had sent to her, thinking her no great threat.

She would need more than a handful of banshees to fight Arthas. She would need an army, a city of the dead…she would need Lordaeron. The Forsaken, she would call these lost souls who, like her, did not breathe but who yet had their own will. And even more immediately, she would need more than her spectral sisters to fight the three demonic brothers. Or maybe there would be only two she needed to fight.

Sylvanas Windrunner thought again of Varimathras, how easy he was to manipulate.

Perhaps this one could be useful….

Yes. She and the Forsaken would find their own path in this world…and would slaughter anyone who stood in their way.

N
orthrend. There was an odd sense of coming home. As the shore came into view, Arthas remembered the first time he had arrived here, his heart full of pain at Jaina and Uther’s betrayal, aching at the necessity of what he had been forced to do at Stratholme. So much had happened that it felt like a lifetime ago. He had come then with vengeance in his heart, to kill the demon lord responsible for turning his people into the walking dead. Now, he ruled those walking dead and was allies with Kel’Thuzad.

Strange, the twists and turns of fate.

He did not feel the cold, as he had then. Nor did the men who had followed him so loyally; death dulled sensations for such things. Only the human necromancers bundled up against the icy wind that sighed and moaned and the snow that began to drift lazily downward as they made anchor and debarked.

Arthas moved stiffly from the rowboat onto the shore. He might not feel the cold of this place, but his powers, and his physical self, were weak. As soon as his feet touched the earth, Arthas felt him—the Lich King. Not in his mind, not speaking to him through Frostmourne, although the runeblade’s feeble glow strengthened slightly. No, Arthas sensed him
here,
his master, as he had not before. And there was a prickling sensation of increased threat.

He turned back to the rest of those who were following him ashore—ghouls, specters, shades, abominations, necromancers. “We must make haste,” he cried. “Something out there is threatening the Lich King. We must reach Icecrown quickly.”

“My lord!” one of the necromancers cried, and pointed. Arthas whirled, drawing Frostmourne.

Through the veil of the falling snow he could see golden-red shapes hovering in the air. They drew closer, and his eyes narrowed in surprise and anger as he recognized the creatures and realized who their masters must be.

Dragonhawks. He was astonished. He had all but exterminated the high elves. How could it be that any of them survived sufficiently to regroup, let alone determine where he had gone and confront him here? A slow smile spread across his handsome features, and he felt the sneaking sensation of admiration.

The dragonhawks came closer. He lifted Frostmourne in salute.

“I have to admit,” he shouted, “I am surprised to see quel’dorei here. I would have thought the cold too unpleasant for so delicate a people.”

“Prince Arthas!” The voice came from one of the riders, its beast hovering above Arthas. His voice rang clear and bright and strong. “You still do not see quel’dorei here. We are the
sin’dorei
—the blood elves! We have sworn to avenge the ghosts of Quel’Thalas. This dead land…will be cleansed! The disgusting things you have created will rest properly at last. And you, butcher, will finally receive your just punishment.”

He was amused for a moment. Their numbers were not insignificant. Arthas realized that he was most likely looking at the last few of an all but extinct race. And they’d come just for him? Then his smugness faded into irritation. Despite his wearied state, anger filled his voice as he cried, “Northrend belongs to the Scourge, elf, and you will soon join them! You made a terrible mistake by coming here!”

More dragonhawks appeared, along with rangers on foot. Arrows flew through the skies, seemingly as numerous as snowflakes, peppering the undead as they charged. Most of them, however, did not fall; the sting of arrows, as long as it did not pierce a vital spot, troubled them not at all.

Not bothering to even mount Invincible, Arthas charged in. Frostmourne hungered; it seemed to gather energy and strength, as did Arthas himself, with each of the bright, shining souls it consumed. In the midst of the clamor of battle, he heard a voice that was deep and cold as Northrend itself call out from a hill above them.

“Onward for the Scourge! Slay them in Ner’zhul’s name!”

Despite all he had seen, despite all he had done, Arthas felt a deep chill sweep over him at the sound of that bone-cold voice. He risked a quick glance upward and his eyes widened at what he beheld.

Nerubians! Of course—this was their homeland. His heart lifted as they poured forth. He could make out their shapes through the snow, the familiar, unsettling, scuttling speed with which the spidery beings descended on their prey. Arthas had to give these so-called sin’dorei credit—they fought valiantly—but they were hopelessly outnumbered, and soon Arthas was standing in a sea of red-and gold-clad bodies. He raised his hand, and one by one, the dead elves twitched and lurched to their feet, staring at him glassy-eyed.

“More soldiers for the one we serve,” Arthas said. He looked again, and his eyes fell upon the nerubians’ leader.

He was larger than those he commanded, towering over them as he moved easily down the snowy landscape toward Arthas. He moved among them like the king he was, with deliberateness and precision. Arthas tried to find something familiar in something so incredibly alien to him; to the human’s eyes, Anub’arak looked like a cross between a beetle and the other, more spidery-appearing nerubians he commanded. Arthas found that he had taken an unintentional step backward and forced himself to stay where he was as the creature approached.

It kept coming until it was right in front of him, then loomed over him, gazing down with multiple eyes, a thing of utter horror. His ally.

Arthas found his voice and forced it to be calm. “Thanks for the assistance, mighty one.”

The creature inclined its head, mandibles clacking gently as it spoke in that deep, sepulchral tone that still made Arthas uneasy. “The Lich King sent me to aid you, death knight. I am Anub’arak, ancient king of Azjol-Nerub. Where is the other?” It reared up on its hind legs, looking about.

“Other?”

“Kel’Thuzad,” Anub’arak rumbled again in that hissing, sighing, reverberating voice. He lowered himself down and fixed Arthas with his multiple-eyed gaze. “I know him. I greeted him when he first came to serve the Lich King, as I greet you now.”

Arthas wondered briefly if Kel’Thuzad had felt as unsettled as he upon first encountering this undead, insectoid king of an ancient race. Surely he had been, he told himself. Surely anyone would be.

“Your people were a welcome addition to our ranks the first time we attacked these elves,” he said, glancing again at the fallen sin’dorei. He was very glad Anub’arak’s “people” were on his side. “And I welcome your aid again now. But we have little time for pleasantries. Since the Lich King sent you, you must be aware that he is in danger. We must reach Icecrown immediately.”

“It is so,” rumbled Anub’arak. He bobbed his fearsome head and shifted, extending two of his forelegs. “I will gather the rest of my people, and we will march together to protect our lord.”

The massive creature moved off imperiously, summoning his obedient subjects who scurried to him eagerly. Arthas suppressed a shudder and nudged one of the bodies of the fallen elves. It had been ripped limb from limb, too badly damaged to be of use. “These elves are pathetic. It’s no wonder we destroyed their homeland so easily.”

“Pity I wasn’t there to stop you. It’s been a long time, Arthas.”

The voice was musical, smooth, cultured…and laced with hatred. Arthas turned, recognizing it, startled and pleased to find its owner here. The twists and turns of fate indeed.

“Prince Kael’thas,” he said, grinning. The elf stood a few yards away, the shimmer of his teleportation spell still fading. Seemingly ageless, he looked exactly the same as Arthas remembered. No, not exactly. The blue eyes gleamed with suppressed anger. Not the hot rage he had seen upon the visage the last time they had encountered each other, but a cold, deep-seated fury. He no longer wore the purple and blue robes of the Kirin Tor, but the traditional crimson hues of his people.

“Arthas Menethil.” The elf did not use a title. He obviously meant it as a slight, but it bothered Arthas not at all. He knew well enough what he was, and soon, this too-pretty princeling would know it also. “I would spit at the thought of your name in my mouth, but you aren’t even worth that.”

“Ah, Kael,” Arthas said, grinning. “Even your insults are unnecessarily complicated. Glad to see you haven’t changed—as ineffectual as ever. That raises a question. Why weren’t you at Quel’Thalas anyway? Content to let other people die for you while you sat snug and secure in your Violet Citadel? I don’t think you’ll be doing that anymore.”

Kael’thas gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowing. “That much I will give you. I should have been there. I was instead trying to help the humans fight the Scourge—the Scourge you unleashed on your own people. You may not care for your subjects—but I care for mine. I have lost far, far too much in dealing with humans. I stand only for the elves now. For the sin’dorei—the children of the blood. You will pay, Arthas. You will pay dearly for what you have done!”

“You know, I’m almost enjoying this banter. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I haven’t seen you since…” He let the sentence trail away, watching as a muscle twitched near the elf prince’s eye. Yes, Kael’thas remembered. Remembered stumbling across Jaina and Arthas locked in a deep kiss. The memory briefly unsettled Arthas as well, and the pleasure he took in inflicting the torment upon Kael’thas soured ever so slightly. “I must say though, I’m rather disappointed in these elves you lead. I’d hoped for a better fight. Maybe I killed all the ones with spirit in Quel’Thalas.”

Kael didn’t rise to the bait. “What you faced here was merely a scouting force. Don’t worry, Arthas, you’ll have a good challenge shortly. I assure you that defeating Lord Illidan’s army will be far more difficult.” The prince’s full lips twisted in amusement as Arthas started at the name.

“Illidan? He’s behind this invasion?” Dammit. It would have been better if he had killed Tichondrius himself, rather than involving the kaldorei. He’d known Illidan was power hungry. He just hadn’t realized that the night elf would evolve into so great a threat.

“He is. Our forces are vast, Arthas.” The silky, rich voice was laced now with delight. The bastard was really enjoying this. “Even now, they march upon Icecrown Glacier. You’ll never make it in time to save your precious Lich King. Consider this payment for Quel’Thalas…and other insults.”

“Other insults?” Arthas grinned. “Perhaps you’d like the details of these other insults. Shall I tell you what it was like to hold her in my arms, to taste her, to hear her call out my—”

The pain was worse than it had ever been before.

Arthas crumpled to his knees. His vision went red. Again he saw the Lich King—Ner’zhul, he recalled Anub’arak had named him—trapped in the icy prison.

“Make haste!” the Lich King cried. “My enemies draw near! Our time is almost spent!”

“Are you well, death knight?”

Arthas blinked and found himself staring up into the face, if it could be called that, of Anub’arak. A long arachnid leg was extended toward him, offering him assistance. He hesitated, but was too weak to rise unaided. Steeling himself, he gripped it and rose. It was like a stick in his hand, dried and almost—mummified to the touch. He let go as soon as he could stand by himself.

“My powers are weakening, but I’ll be all right.” He took a steadying breath and glanced around. “Where is Kael’thas?”

“Gone.” The voice was cold as stone and laced with displeasure. “He used his magic to teleport away before we could rend him to pieces.”

The cowardly mage trick of teleportation again. If only Arthas’s necromancers were capable of such, the Lich King would not be in the danger he was in. Arthas recalled the other corpses and knew that such would indeed have been Kael’thas’s fate. “I hate to say it,” he said, “but the damned elf was right.” He turned to his intimidating ally. “Anub’arak—I had another vision—the Lich King is in immediate peril. They’re closing in on him—Illidan and Kael’thas. We’ll never reach the glacier in time!”

I’ve failed….

Anub’arak did not seem at all perturbed. “Overland, perhaps not,” agreed the mammoth creature. “It is a long and arduous voyage. But…there is another route we might take, death knight. The ancient, shattered kingdom of Azjol-Nerub lies deep below us. It was where I once ruled for many years. I know its corridors and hidden places well. Though it has fallen on dark times, it could provide us a direct shortcut to the glacier.”

Arthas looked up. As the raven flew, it was not that long a journey. But across the ice and the mountains that reared up before them…

“You’re certain we can reach the glacier through these tunnels?” he asked.

“Nothing is certain, death knight.” For a moment, it sounded like the nerubian was smirking. “The ruins will be perilous. But it’s worth the risk.”

Fallen on dark times.
A curious phrase for an ancient, dead, spider-lord to use. Arthas wondered what that meant.

He supposed he was about to find out.

Anub’arak and his subjects set a brisk pace, heading due north. Arthas and his Scourge followers fell into step, and soon the ocean was left behind. The sun moved quickly across the dim sky, low on the horizon. The long night was coming. As they marched, Arthas sent some of his warriors to gather what tree limbs and sticks they could; they would burn through many a torch passing through this dangerous subterranean kingdom.

After several hours of excruciatingly slow progress—the undead could not truly feel the cold, but the wind and snow slowed them—Arthas knew that despite Anub’arak’s nearly wry words, one thing actually
was
certain. He never would have made it in time to save the Lich King—and thus himself—by heading overland. In the end, it was self-preservation that drove him so hard. The Lich King had found him, had made him into what he now was. Had granted him great power. Arthas knew and appreciated it, but his debt to the Lich King was nothing of loyalty. If this great being was slain, there was no doubt but that Arthas would be the next to die—and, as he had told Uther, he intended to live forever.

At last, they reached the gates. So covered with ice and snow were they that Arthas did not immediately recognize them as such, but Anub’arak halted, reared up, and spread wide two of his eight legs, indicating what lay ahead of them.