Arthas: Rise of the Lich King (26 page)

Curved stone, looking like sickles—or insect legs, Arthas thought—jutted upward, their tips bending toward one another to form a sort of symbolic tunnel. Ahead, he could make out the gates themselves. A giant spider was etched upon them. Arthas’s lip curled in disgust, but then he thought of the statues dotting Stormwind. Was this really so different? The entrance “tunnel” and the gates led into the heart of what seemed to be an iceberg. For a moment, just a moment, Arthas glanced at the silent, enormous figure of Anub’arak, thought about spiders and flies, and wondered if he was doing the right thing.

“Behold the entrance to a once-powerful and ancient place,” Anub’arak said. “I was lord here, and my word was obeyed without question. I was mighty and powerful, and I bowed to no one. But things change. I serve the Lich King now, and my place is defending him.”

Arthas thought briefly of his outrage at the plague, of his burning need for vengeance…of the look in his father’s eyes as Frostmourne drank his soul.

“Things do change,” he said quietly. “But there’s no time to reminisce.” He turned to his strange new ally and smiled coldly. “Let us descend.”

A
rthas did not know how long they spent beneath the frozen surface of Northrend, in the ancient and deadly nerubian kingdom. He only knew two things as he trudged out into the light, blinking like a bat forced out into the sun. One was that he hoped he was in time to defend the Lich King. The other was that he was grateful, bone-deep, to be
out
of that place.

It had been clear that the nerubian kingdom had once been beautiful. Arthas was not sure what he had expected, but it had not been the haunting, vivid colors of blue and purple, nor the intricate geometric shapes that denoted different rooms and corridors. These still retained their beauty, but were like a preserved rose; something that while still lovely, was nonetheless dead. A strange smell wafted through the place as they walked. Arthas could not place it, nor even categorize it. It was acrid and stale at once, but not unpleasant, not to one used to the company of the decaying dead.

It was likely in the end a shorter route, as Anub’arak had promised, but every step had been bought with blood. Soon after they had entered, they had come under attack.

They scuttled out from the darkness, a dozen or more spider-beings chittering angrily as they descended. Anub’arak and his soldiers met them head-on. Arthas had hesitated for a fraction of a second, then joined in, ordering his troops to do the same. The vast caverns were filled with the shrieking and chittering of the nerubians, the guttural groans of the undead, and the agonized cries of the living necromancers as the nerubians attacked with gobbets of poison. Thick, sticky webbing trapped several of the fiercer corpses, holding them helpless until snapping mandibles lopped off heads or stiletto-sharp legs impaled and eviscerated them.

Anub’arak was a nightmare incarnate. He uttered a dreadful, hollow sound in his guttural native language, and fell upon his former subjects with devastating consequences. His legs, each working separately, grabbed and impaled his hapless victims. Vicious pincers sheared off limbs. And the whole time, the stale air was filled with cries that made Arthas, inured to such things as he was, shiver and swallow hard.

The skirmish was violent and costly, but the nerubians eventually retreated to the shadows that had birthed them. Several of their number were left behind, eight legs squirming violently before the hapless arachnids curled up on themselves and died.

“What the hell was that all about?” Arthas had asked, panting and whirling on Anub’arak. “These nerubians are your kin. Why are they hostile to us?”

“Many of us who fell during the War of the Spider were brought back to serve the Lich King,” Anub’arak had replied. “These warriors, however,” and he waved a foreleg at one of the bodies, “never died. Foolishly, they still fight to liberate Nerub from the Scourge.”

Arthas glanced down at the dead nerubian. “Foolishly indeed,” he murmured, and lifted a hand. “In death, they only serve that which they struggled against in life.”

And so it was that when he finally emerged into the dim light of the overhead world, gulping in the cold, clean air, his army had swollen with new recruits, freshly dead and utterly his to command.

Arthas drew Invincible to a halt. He was trembling, badly, and wanted to simply sit and breathe fresh air for a few moments. The air quickly soured with the rotting stench of his own army. Anub’arak passed him, pausing to gaze at him implacably for a moment.

“No time to rest, death knight. The Lich King has need of us. We must serve.”

Arthas shot the crypt lord a quick glance. Something in the tone of the being’s voice spoke of the vaguest stirring of—was it resentment? Did Anub’arak serve only because he had to? Would he turn on the Lich King if he was able to do so—and more to the point, would he turn on Arthas?

The Lich King’s powers were weakening—and so were Arthas’s powers right along with him. If they got weak enough…

The death knight watched the retreating figure of the crypt lord, took a deep breath, and followed.

How long the trek through thick snow and scouring winds was, Arthas didn’t know. At one point he nearly lost consciousness while riding, so weak was he. He came to with a start, terrified at the lapse, forcing himself to hang on. He could not falter, not now.

They crested a hill, and Arthas at last saw the glacier in the middle of the valley—and the army that awaited him. His spirits lifted at the sight of so many assembled to fight for him and the Lich King. Anub’arak had left many of his warriors behind, and they were there, stoic and ready. Farther down, though, closer to the glacier, he saw other figures milling about. He was too far away to distinguish them, but he knew whom they must be. His gaze traveled upward, and his breath caught.

The Lich King was there, deep inside the glacier. Trapped in his prison, Arthas had seen him so in the visions. He listened with half an ear as one of the nerubians hastened up to Anub’arak and Arthas to brief them on the situation.

“You’ve arrived just in time. Illidan’s forces have taken up positions at the base of the glacier and—”

Arthas cried out as the worst pain he had yet tasted buffeted him. Again, his world turned the color of blood as agony racked his body. So close to the Lich King now, the torment he shared with that great entity was magnified a hundredfold.

“Arthas, my champion. You have come at last.”

“Master,” Arthas whispered, his eyes squeezed shut and his fingers pressed in to his temples. “Yes, I have come. I am here.”

“There is a fracture in my prison, the Frozen Throne, and my energies are seeping from it,” the Lich King continued. “That is why your powers have diminished.”

“But how?” Had someone attacked him? Arthas saw no immediate foes in his vision, surely he was not too late—

“The runeblade, Frostmourne, was once locked inside the throne as well. I thrust it from the ice so that it would find its way to you…and then lead you to me.”

“And so it has,” Arthas breathed. The Lich King was immobilized, trapped inside the ice. It must have been through sheer will that he had been able to force the great sword through the ice and send it to Arthas. Now he recalled the ice that had held Frostmourne—how it had looked jagged, as if it had been broken off of a larger piece. Such vast power…and all bent toward bringing Arthas to this place. Step by step, Arthas had been led here. Directed. Controlled…

“You must make haste, my champion. My creator, the demon lord Kil’jaeden, sent his agents here to destroy me. If they should reach the Frozen Throne before you, all will be lost. The Scourge will be undone. Now hurry! I will grant you all the power I can spare.”

Coldness suddenly began to seep through Arthas, numbing the angry, raw pain, calming his thoughts. The energy was so vast, so heady…it was more powerful even than what Arthas had known before. This, then, was why he had come. To drink deep of this icy draft, to take the cold strength of the Lich King into himself. He opened his eyes, and his vision was clear. Frostmourne’s runes blazed to new life, a chill mist seeping up from it. Grinning fiercely, Arthas gripped the blade and lifted it high. When he spoke, his voice was clear and resonant and carried in the crisp, frigid air.

“I saw another vision of the Lich King. He has restored my powers! I know now what I must do.” He pointed with Frostmourne at the doll-sized figures in the distance. “Illidan has mocked the Scourge long enough. He is attempting to gain entry to the Lich King’s throne chamber. He will fail. It’s time we put the fear of death back in him. Time to end the game…once and for all.”

With a fierce challenging cry, he swung Frostmourne over his head. It sang out, hungry for more souls. “For the Lich King!” Arthas cried, and charged down to meet his enemies.

He felt like a god as he swung Frostmourne with almost careless ease. Each soul it took only strengthened him. Let the arrows of the blood elves shower upon them like the snow. They fell like wheat before the scythe. At one point, Arthas glanced over the battlefield. Where was the one he had to slay? He saw no sign of Illidan yet. Was it possible he had already gained entrance into the—

“Arthas! Arthas, turn and fight me, damn you!”

The voice was clear and pure and full of hatred, and Arthas turned.

The elven prince was but a few yards away, his red and gold bright as blood against the unforgiving whiteness of the snow upon which they fought. He was tall and proud, his staff planted in the snow before him, his eyes fixed on Arthas. Magic crackled around him.

“You will go no farther, butcher.”

A muscle twitched near Arthas’s eye. So Sylvanas had called him, too. He made a slight
tsk
ing sound, and grinned at the elf who had once seemed so very powerful and learned to a young human prince. His mind went back to the moment when Kael had surprised Arthas and Jaina in a kiss. The boy that Arthas had been then had known himself outmatched by the older, much more powerful mage.

Arthas was no longer a boy.

“After you disappeared in so cowardly a fashion at our last confrontation, I admit, I’m surprised to see you show your face again, Kael. Don’t be upset that I stole Jaina from you. You should let that go and move on. After all, there’s so much left in this world for you to enjoy. Oh wait…no there isn’t.”

“Damn you to hell, Arthas Menethil,” Kael’thas snarled, trembling with outrage. “You’ve taken everything I ever cared for. Vengeance is all I have left.”

He wasted no more time in venting his anger, but instead lifted the staff. The crystal affixed to its tip glowed brightly, and a ball of fire crackled in his free hand. A heartbeat later it had soared toward Arthas. Shards of ice rained down upon the death knight. Kael’thas was a master mage, and much faster than anyone Arthas had ever encountered. He barely got Frostmourne up in time to deflect the surging fiery globe. The frost shards, however, were ease itself. He swung the great runeblade over his head, and it called to its blade the shards of ice like iron shavings to a magnet. Grinning, Arthas whirled the sword over his head, directing the pieces of ice back to their sender. He’d been taken by surprise by Kael’thas’s speed, but he would not make that mistake again.

“You might want to think twice about attacking me with ice, Kael,” he said, laughing. He needed to goad the mage into acting rashly. Control was key to the manipulation of magic, and if Kael lost his temper, he would undoubtedly lose the fight.

Kael narrowed his eyes. “Thanks for the advice,” he growled. Arthas tightened up on the reins, preparing to ride down his adversary, but at that instant the snow beneath him glowed bright orange for a moment and then became water. Invincible suddenly dropped two feet and his hooves slipped on the slick ground. Arthas leaped off and sent the beast cantering away, gripping Frostmourne with renewed determination in his right hand. He extended his left. A dark ball of swirling green energy formed in his flattened palm and sped toward Kael like an arrow shot from a bow. The mage moved to counter, but the attack was too swift. His face went a shade paler and he stumbled back, his hand going to his heart. Arthas grinned as some of the mage’s life energy flooded him.

“I took your woman,” he said, continuing to try to anger the mage, although he knew, and probably Kael knew, that Jaina had never belonged to the elf. “I held her in my arms at night. She tasted sweet when I kissed her, Kael. She—”

“Loathes you now,” Kael’thas replied. “You sicken and disgust her, Arthas. Anything she felt for you has since turned to hatred.”

Arthas’s chest contracted oddly. He realized he had not thought about how Jaina regarded him now. He had always done his best to thrust all thoughts of her away when they drifted into his mind. Was it true? Did Jaina really—

An enormous crackling ball of fire exploded against his chest, and Arthas cried out as he was forced backward by the blow. Flame licked at him for precious seconds before he recovered his wits sufficiently to counter the spell. The armor had largely protected him, although its heat against his skin was agonizing, but he was aghast that he had been so taken by surprise. A second ball of fire came, but this time he was ready, meeting the fiery blast with his own deadly ice.

“I destroyed your homeland…fouled your precious Sunwell. And I killed your father. Frostmourne sucked the soul right out of him, Kael. It’s gone forever.”

“You’re good at killing noble elderly men,” sneered Kael’thas. The jab was unexpectedly painful. “At least you faced
my
father on the battlefield. What of your own, Arthas Menethil? How brave of you to cut down a defenseless parent opening his arms to embrace his—”

Arthas charged, closing the distance between them in a few strides, and brought Frostmourne down. Kael’thas parried with his staff. For a second, the stave held, then it broke beneath Frostmourne’s onslaught. But the delay had bought Kael sufficient time to unsheathe a glittering, gleaming weapon, a runeblade that seemed to glow red in contrast to Frostmourne’s cold, icy blue. The blades clashed. Both men pressed down, straining with effort, each one’s blade holding off the other as the seconds ticked by. Kael’thas grinned as their eyes met.

“You recognize this blade, do you not?”

Arthas did. He knew the sword’s name and its lineage—Flamestrike, Felo’melorn, once wielded by Kael’thas’s ancestor, Dath’Remar Sunstrider, the founder of the dynasty. The sword was almost unspeakably old. It had seen the War of the Ancients, the birth of the Highborne. Arthas returned the smirk. Flamestrike would have another significant event to bear witness to; it would now see the end of the last Sunstrider.

“Oh, I do. I saw it snap in two beneath Frostmourne, an instant before I slew your father.”

Arthas was physically stronger, and the energy of the Lich King surged through him. With a ragged grunt, he shoved Kael’thas backward, thinking to knock him off balance. The mage recovered quickly and almost danced into another position, brandishing Felo’melorn, his eyes never leaving Arthas.

“And so I found it, and I had it reforged.”

“Broken swords are weak where they are mended, elf.” Arthas began to circle, watching for the instant where Kael would be vulnerable.