Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6

by Christie Golden

  He’d seen Jaina only a few times at dinner, and she and Calia seemed to be thick as thieves. Arthas finally decided enough was enough, and, taking the lessons in history and politics that were being drilled into his head, he approached his father and Uther with the offer to escort their guest, Lady Jaina Proudmoore, to dalaran himself.

  He didn’t bother to tell them it was because he wanted to get out of his duties. It pleased Terenas to think of his son as being so responsible, Jaina smiled brightly at the prospect, and it got Arthas exactly what he wanted. Everyone was happy.

  And so it was that in early summer, when the flowers were blooming, the woods were full of game, and the sun danced above them in a sky of bright blue, Prince Arthas Menethil was accompanying a brightly smiling, blond, young lady on a journey to the wondrous city of magi.

  They’d gotten a little late of a start—one thing Arthas was starting to learn about Jaina Proudmoore was that she was not exactly punctual—but Arthas didn’t mind. He was in no hurry. They weren’t alone, of course. Propriety demanded that Jaina’s lady-in-waiting and a guard or two ride escort. But still, the servants hung back and let the two young nobles become acquainted. They rode for a while, then stopped for a picnic lunch. While they were munching on bread, cheese, and watered wine, one of Arthas’s men came up to him.

  “Sir, with your permission, we will make preparations to spend the night in Ambermill. On the morrow, we can push on the rest of the way to Dalaran. We should arrive there by nightfall.”

  Arthas shook his head. “No, let’s continue. We can camp overnight in the Hillsbrad area. That will get Lady Jaina to Dalaran by mid-morning tomorrow.” He turned to smile at her.

  She smiled back, though he caught a hint of disappointment in her eyes.

  “Are you sure, sir? We’ve planned on accepting the hospitality of the locals, not subjecting the lady to sleeping out in the open.”

  “It’s fine, Kayvan,” Jaina spoke up. “I’m not a fragile little figurine.”

  Arthas’s smile widened into a grin.

  He hoped she’d feel that way in a few hours.

  While the servants set up camp, Arthas and Jaina went exploring. They scrambled up a hill that gave them an unparalleled view. To the west, they could see the little farming community of Ambermill and even the distant spires of Baron Silverlaine’s keep. To the east, they could almost make out Dalaran itself, and more clearly, the internment camp to its south. Since the end of the Second War, the orcs had been rounded up and placed into these camps. It was more merciful than simply slaughtering them on sight, Terenas had explained to Arthas. And besides, the orcs seemed to be suffering from a strange malaise. Most of the time when humans stumbled upon them, or hunted them, they fought only halfheartedly and went into internment peacefully. There were several camps just like this one.

  They had a rustic meal of roasted rabbit on a spit and retired shortly after dark. Once he was assured that everyone was asleep, Arthas threw a tunic over his breeches and quickly tugged on his boots. As an afterthought, he took one of his daggers and fastened it to his belt, then crept over to Jaina.

  “Jaina,” he whispered, “wake up.”

  She awoke in silence and unafraid, her eyes glinting in the moonlight. He squatted back as she sat up, putting a finger to his lips. She spoke in a whisper. “Arthas? Is something wrong?”

  He grinned. “You up for an adventure?”

  She tilted her head. “What sort of an adventure?”

  “Trust me.”

  Jaina looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “All right.”

  She, like all of them, had gone to sleep mostly dressed and simply needed to pull on her boots and cloak. She rose, made a halfhearted attempt to comb her fingers through her blond hair, and nodded.

  Jaina followed him as they ascended the same ridge they had explored earlier that day. The climb was more challenging at night, but the moonlight was quite bright and their feet did not slip.

  “There’s our destination,” he said, pointing.

  Jaina gulped. “The internment camp?”

  “Have you ever seen one up close?”

  “No, and I don’t want to.”

  He frowned, disappointed. “Come on, Jaina. It’s our one chance to get a good look at an orc. Aren’t you curious?”

  Her face was hard to read in the moonlight, her eyes dark pools of shadow. “I—they killed Derek. My older brother.”

  “One of them killed Varian’s father, too. They’ve killed a lot of people, and that’s why they’re in these camps. It’s the best place for them. A lot of people don’t like the fact that my father is raising taxes to pay for the camps, but—come on and judge for yourself. I missed a chance to get a good look at Doomhammer when he was in the Undercity. I don’t want to miss a chance to see one now.”

  She was silent, and at last he sighed. “All right, I’ll take you back.”

  “No,” she said, surprising him. “Let’s go.”

  Quietly they made their descent. “All right,” Arthas whispered. “When we were up here earlier, I made note of their patrols. It doesn’t look like they’re much different at night, except maybe even more infrequent. With the orcs not having much spirit left in them, I guess the guards think that the chances of escape aren’t that likely.” He smiled at her reassuringly. “Which works out well for us. Other than patrols, someone is always stationed in those two watchtowers. They’re the ones we have to be most careful of, but hopefully they’ll be looking for any disturbance to come from the front rather than behind, since the camp backs up against a sheer wall face. Now, let this fellow here complete his circuit, and we should have ample time to get close to that wall right there and take a good look.”

  They waited for the bored-looking guard to meander past, then a few more breaths after that. “Put your hood up,” Arthas said. Both had fair hair, and it would be far too easy for the guards to spot. Jaina looked nervous but excited, and obeyed. Fortunately both she and Arthas wore cloaks of a dark shade. “Ready?” She nodded. “Good. Let’s go!”

  They slipped quickly and quietly down the rest of the way. Arthas held her back for a moment until the guard in the tower was looking in the other direction, then motioned to her. They ran forward, making sure their hoods were securely in place, and a few steps later they were pressing against the wall of the camp.

  The camps were rough but efficient. They were made of wood, little more than logs fastened together, sharpened at the top and embedded deep into the ground. There were plenty of chinks in the “wall” that a curious boy and girl could look through.

  It was hard to see at first, but there were several large shapes inside. Arthas turned his head for a better look. They were orcs all right. Some of them were on the ground, curled up and covered by blankets. Some walked here and there, almost aimlessly, like animals in cages, but lacking a caged beast’s almost palpable yearning for freedom. Over there was what looked like a family unit—a male, a female, and a young one. The female, slighter and shorter than the male, held something small to her chest, and Arthas realized it was an infant.

  “Oh,” whispered Jaina beside him. “They look…so sad.”

  Arthas snorted, then remembered the need to be quiet. He quickly glanced up at the tower, but the guard had heard nothing. “Sad? Jaina, these brutes destroyed Stormwind. They wanted to render humankind extinct. They killed your brother, for Light’s sake. Don’t waste any pity on them.”

  “Still—somehow I didn’t think they would have children,” Jaina continued. “Do you see the one with the baby?”

  “Well of course they have children, even rats have children,” Arthas said. He was irritated, but then, maybe he should have expected a reaction like that from an eleven-year-old girl.

  “They look harmless enough. Are you sure they belong here?” She turned her face to his, a white oval in the moonlight, seeking his opinion. “It’s expensive to keep them here. Maybe they should be released.”

  “Jaina,�
� he said, keeping his voice soft, “they’re killers. Even if right now they’re lethargic, who can say what would happen if they’re released?”

  She sighed softly in the darkness and didn’t answer. Arthas shook his head. He’d seen enough—the guard would be back shortly. “Ready to go back?”

  She nodded, stepping away and running quickly with him back toward the hill. Arthas glanced over his shoulder and saw the guard start to turn. He dove toward Jaina, grabbed her around the waist, and shoved her to the ground, hitting hard beside her. “Don’t move,” he said, “the guard is looking right at us!”

  Despite the rough fall Jaina was smart enough to freeze at once. Carefully, keeping his face as shadowed as possible, Arthas turned his head to look at the guard. He couldn’t see a face at this distance, but the man’s posture bespoke boredom and weariness. After a long moment, during which Arthas heard his heart thundering in his ears, the guard turned to face the other direction.

  “Sorry about that,” Arthas apologized, helping Jaina to her feet. “You all right?”

  “Yes,” Jaina said. She grinned at him.

  They were back in their respective sleeping areas a few moments later. Arthas looked up at the stars, completely satisfied.

  It had been a good day.

  Late that next morning, they arrived at Dalaran. Arthas had never been there before, though of course had heard a great deal about it. The magi were a private and mysterious lot—quite powerful, but they kept to themselves save when needed. Arthas remembered when Khadgar had accompanied Anduin Lothar and Prince—now King—Varian Wrynn to speak with Terenas, to warn them of the orcish threat. His presence had lent weight to Anduin’s statements, and with good reason. Magi of the Kirin Tor didn’t get involved in ordinary politics.

  Nor did they do the ordinary political maneuvering such as inviting royalty to enjoy their hospitality. It was only because Jaina was coming to study that Arthas and his retinue were permitted admittance. Dalaran was beautiful, even more glorious than Capital City. It seemed almost impossibly clean and bright, as a city based so deeply on magic ought to be. There were several graceful towers reaching skyward, their bases white stone and their apexes violet encircled with gold. Many had radiant, hovering stones dancing around them. Others had windows of stained glass that caught the sunlight. Gardens bloomed, the fragrances from wild, fantastical flowers providing a scent so heady Arthas was almost dizzy. Or maybe it was the constant thrum of magic in the air that caused the sensation.

  He felt very ordinary and dingy as they rode into the city, and almost wished they hadn’t slept outside last night. If they had stayed at Ambermill, at least he’d have had a chance to have bathed. But then, he and Jaina wouldn’t have gotten a chance to spy on the internment camp.

  He glanced at his companion. Her blue eyes were wide with awe and excitement, her lips slightly parted. She turned to Arthas, those lips curving in a smile.

  “Aren’t I lucky to be studying here?”

  “Sure,” he said, smiling on her behalf. She was drinking this in like one who had been given water after a week in the desert, but he felt…unwanted. He clearly did not have the affinity for wielding magic as she did.

  “I’m told that outsiders aren’t usually welcome,” she said. “I think that’s a shame. It would be nice to see you again.”

  She blushed, and for a moment, Arthas forgot about the intimidation the city emanated, and heartily agreed that it would be nice to see Lady Jaina Proudmoore again, too.

  Very nice indeed.

  “Again, ye little gnome girl! I’ll pull yer pigtails, ye—Ooof!”

  The shield caught the taunting dwarf full in the helmed face, and he actually stumbled back a step or two. Arthas slashed with the sword, grinning beneath his own helm as it connected solidly. Then suddenly, he was sailing through the air to land hard on his back. His vision was filled with the image of a looming head with a long beard, and he was barely able to lift his blade in time to parry. With a grunt, he pulled his legs in to his chest and then extended them hard, catching Muradin in the gut. This time it was the dwarf who went hurtling backward. Arthas brought his legs down swiftly and leaped up in a single smooth motion, charging his teacher who was still on the ground, coming at him with blow after blow until Muradin spoke the words that Arthas honestly never thought he’d hear:

  “I yield!”

  It took everything Arthas had to halt the strike, pulling up and back so abruptly he lost his balance and stumbled. Muradin lay where he was, his chest rising and falling.

  Fear squeezed Arthas’s heart. “Muradin? Muradin!”

  A hearty chuckle escaped from the thick, bronze beard. “Well done, lad, well done indeed!” He struggled to sit up and Arthas was there, reaching out a hand to help haul the dwarf to his feet. Muradin pumped the hand happily. “So, ye were payin’ attention after all when I taught ye my special trick.”

  Relieved and pleased with the praise, Arthas grinned. Some of what Muradin taught him would be repeated, honed, and reinforced in his paladin training. But other things—well, he didn’t think Uther the Lightbringer would know about feet planted firmly in the belly, or the rather handy trick regarding the efficacy of a broken wine bottle. There was fighting and there was fighting, and Muradin Bronzebeard seemed determined that Arthas Menethil would understand all aspects of it.

  Arthas was fourteen now, and had been training with Muradin several times a week, save for when the dwarf was away on diplomatic errands. At first, it had gone as both parties had expected—badly. Arthas left the first dozen or so sessions bruised, bloodied, and limping. He had stubbornly refused any offers of healing, insisting that the pain was part of the process. Muradin had approved, and he had shown it by pressing Arthas all the harder. Arthas never complained, not even when he wanted to, not even when Muradin scolded him or pressed the attack long after Arthas was too exhausted to even hold up a shield.

  And for that stubborn refusal to whine or to quit, he was rewarded twofold: he learned and learned well, and he won the respect of Muradin Bronzebeard.

  “Oh yes, sir, I was paying attention.” Arthas chuckled.

  “Good lad, good lad.” Muradin reached up to clap him on the shoulder. “Now, off wi’ ye. Ye’ve taken quite the beating today; ye deserve a bit o’ rest.”

  His eyes twinkled as he spoke and Arthas nodded as if agreeing. Today, it was Muradin who had taken the beating. And he seemed as happy as Arthas at the fact. The prince’s heart suddenly swelled with affection toward the dwarf. Though a strict taskmaster, Muradin was someone of whom Arthas had grown terribly fond.

  He whistled a little as he strode toward his quarters, but then a sudden outburst froze him in his tracks.

  “No, Father! I will not!”

  “Calia, I grow tired of this conversation. You have no say in this matter.”

  “Papa, please, no!”

  Arthas edged a little closer to Calia’s chambers. The door was ajar and he listened, slightly worried. Terenas doted on Calia. What in the world was he asking of her to make her beg with him and use the term of endearment that both she and Arthas had dropped as they grew toward adulthood?

  Calia sobbed brokenly. Arthas could take it no longer. He opened the door. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear, but—what is wrong?”

  Terenas had recently seemed to be acting strangely, and now he looked furious with his sixteen-year-old daughter. “It is no business of yours, Arthas,” Terenas rumbled. “I have told Calia something I wish her to do. She will obey me.”

  Calia collapsed on the bed, sobbing. Arthas stared from his father to his sister in utter astonishment. Terenas muttered something and stormed out. Arthas glanced back at Calia, then followed his father.

  “Father, please, what’s going on?”

  “Do not question me. Calia’s duty is to obey her father.” Terenas marched through a door and into a receiving room. Arthas recognized Lord Daval Prestor, a young noble whom Terenas seemed to hold in very high
regard, and a pair of visiting Dalaran wizards he did not know.

  “Run along back to your sister, Arthas, and try to calm her. I’ll be with you as soon as I can, I promise.”

  With a final glance at the three visitors, Arthas nodded and went back to Calia’s rooms. His older sister had not moved, although her sobs had quieted somewhat. At a total loss, Arthas simply sat beside her on the bed, feeling awkward.

  Calia sat up on the bed, her face wet. “I’m sorry you h-had to see that, Arthas, but m-maybe it’s for the best.”

  “What did Father want you to do?”

  “He wishes me to marry against my will.”

  Arthas blinked. “Calie, you’re only sixteen, you’re not even old enough to get married.”

  She reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at her swollen eyes. “That’s what I said. But Father said it didn’t matter; we’d formalize the betrothal and on my birthday I’d marry Lord Prestor.”

  Arthas’s sea-green eyes widened in comprehension. So that was why Prestor was here….

  “Well,” he began awkwardly, “he’s very well connected, and—I guess he’s handsome. Everyone says so. At least he’s not some old man.”

  “You don’t understand, Arthas. I don’t care how well connected or handsome or even kind he is. It’s that I don’t have any choice in the matter. I’m—I’m like your horse. I’m a thing, not a person. To be given away as Father sees fit—to seal a political bargain.”

  “You—you don’t love Prestor?”

  “Love him?” Her blue, bloodshot eyes narrowed in anger. “I barely know him! He’s never taken the slightest…oh, what’s the use? I know that this is common practice among royalty and nobility. That we are pawns. But I just never expected Father—”