Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6

by Christie Golden

  “I mean—this isn’t forever,” he said, feeling the need to explain. “Just for now. You’ve got studying to do—I’m sure I’ve been a distraction. Antonidas probably resents me.”

  She said nothing.

  “This is for the best. Maybe one day it’ll be different and we can try again. It’s not that I don’t—that you—”

  He pulled her into his arms and hugged her. She was stiff as stone for a moment, then he felt the tension leave her and her arms went around him. They stood alone in the hall for a long time, Arthas resting his cheek against her bright gold hair, the hair that, no doubt, their children would indeed have been born with. Might still be born with.

  “I don’t want to close the door,” he said quietly. “I just—”

  “It’s all right, Arthas. I understand.”

  He stepped back, his hands on her shoulders, peering into her eyes. “Do you?”

  She laughed slightly. “Honestly? No. But it’s all right. It will be eventually, anyway. I know that.”

  “Jaina, I just want to make sure this is right. For both of us.”

  I don’t want to mess this up. I can’t mess this up.

  She nodded. She took a deep breath and steadied herself, giving him a smile…a real, if hurting, smile. “Come, Prince Arthas. You need to escort your friend to the ball.”

  Arthas somehow made it through the evening, and so did Jaina, although Terenas kept giving him strange glances. He didn’t want to tell his father, not yet. It was a strained and unhappy night, and at one point during a pause in the dancing, Arthas looked out at the blanket of white snow and the moon-silvered lake, and wondered why everything bad seemed to happen in winter.

  Lieutenant General Aedelas Blackmoore didn’t look particularly happy to have this exclusive audience with King Terenas and Prince Arthas. In fact, he looked like he desperately would like to slink away unnoticed.

  The years had not been kind to him, neither physically nor in the hand fate had dealt him. Arthas recalled a handsome, rather dashing military commander who, while doubtless overfond of his drink, at least seemed able to keep the ravages of it at bay. No longer. Blackmoore’s hair was streaked with gray, he had put on weight, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was, fortunately, stone-cold sober. Had he showed up to this meeting intoxicated, Terenas, a firm believer in the need for moderation in all things, would have refused to see him.

  Blackmoore was here today because he had messed up. Badly. Somehow the man’s prized gladiator orc, Thrall, had escaped Durnholde in a fire. Blackmoore had tried to keep it quiet and conduct his search for the orc personally and on a small scale, but a secret as large as a massive green orc could not be contained forever. Once word had gotten out, rumors flew wildly, of course—it was a rival lord who had freed the orc, anxious to ensure winning in the rings; it was a jealous mistress, hoping to embarrass him; it was a clever band of orcs unaffected by the strange lethargy—no, no, it was Orgrim Doomhammer himself; it was dragons, infiltrating disguised as humans, who lit the place afire with only their breath.

  Arthas had thought Thrall exciting to watch in combat, but he recalled that even then the thought had crossed his mind whether it was wise to train and educate an orc. When information had come that Thrall was on the loose, Terenas had summoned Blackmoore immediately for an accounting.

  “It was bad enough that you thought it a good idea to train an orc to fight in gladiatorial combat,” Terenas began. “But to train him in military strategy, to teach him to read, to write…I must ask, Lieutenant General…what in the Light’s name were you thinking?”

  Arthas smothered a grin as Aedelas Blackmoore seemed to physically diminish right in front of his eyes.

  “You assured me that the funds and materials went directly into stepping up security, and that your pet orc was securely guarded.” Terenas continued, “And yet somehow, he is out there instead of safely inside Durnholde. How is that possible?”

  Blackmoore frowned and rallied somewhat. “It is certainly unfortunate that Thrall escaped. I’m sure you understand how I must feel.”

  It was a hit on Blackmoore’s part; Terenas still smarted from the fact that Doomhammer had escaped from under his very nose. But it wasn’t a particularly wise hit. Terenas frowned and continued.

  “I hope this isn’t part of some disturbing trend. The money is earned from the labor of the people, Lieutenant General. It goes toward keeping them safe. Do I need to send along a representative to ensure that the funds are properly distributed?”

  “No! No, no, that won’t be necessary. I will account for every penny.”

  “Yes,” said Terenas with deceptive mildness, “you will.”

  When Blackmoore finally left, bowing obsequiously the whole way out, Terenas turned to his son.

  “What are your thoughts on the situation? You saw Thrall in action.”

  Arthas nodded. “He wasn’t at all like I had imagined orcs to be. I mean…he was huge. And fought fiercely. But it was obvious he was also intelligent. And trained.”

  Terenas stroked his beard, thinking. “There are pockets of renegade orcs out there. Some who might not have this lassitude that the ones we’ve imprisoned have demonstrated. If Thrall were to find them and teach them what he knows, it could be a very bad thing for us.”

  Arthas sat up straighter. This could be what he’d been looking for. “I’ve been training hard with Uther.” And he had been. Unable to properly explain to others—and to himself—why he had ended the relationship with Jaina, he’d thrown himself into his training. He’d fought for hours a day until his body ached, attempting to sufficiently exhaust himself so that he could get her face out of his mind.

  It had been what he wanted, hadn’t it? She’d taken it well. So why was it he who lay awake at night, missing her warmth and presence with a pain that bordered on agony? He had even embraced hitherto despised hours spent in still, silent meditation in an effort to distract himself. Maybe if he focused on fighting, on learning how to accept and channel and direct the Light, he could get the hell over her. Over the girl he himself had broken up with.

  “We could go looking for such orcs. Find them before Thrall does.”

  Terenas nodded. “Uther has informed me of your dedication, and he’s been impressed with your progress.” He reached a decision. “Very well then. Go tell Uther and start preparing. It’s time for your first taste of real battle.”

  Arthas was hard put not to let out a whoop of excitement. He refrained, even in his delight picking up on the pained, worried look on his father’s face. Maybe, just maybe, killing rebellious greenskins would erase the memory of Jaina’s stricken expression when he’d ended their relationship.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll do you proud.”

  Despite the regret in his father’s blue-green eyes, so like Arthas’s own, Terenas smiled. “That, my son, is the least of my worries.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jaina raced through the gardens, late to her meeting with Archmage Antonidas. She’d done it again—lost track of time with her nose buried in a book. Her master was always chiding her about that, but she couldn’t help it. Her slippered feet took her down between the rows of goldenbark apple trees, the fruit hanging heavy and ripe. She felt a brief brush of sorrow as she remembered a conversation held here only a few short years ago—when Arthas had appeared behind her, slipping his hands over her eyes, and whispering, “Guess who?”

  Arthas. She missed him still. She supposed she always would. The breakup had been unexpected and hurtful, and the timing couldn’t have been worse—she still cringed as she thought about having to continue through the formal Winter Veil ball as if nothing had gone wrong—but as the initial shock had faded she had grown to understand his reasoning. They were both young yet and, as he had pointed out at the time, they had responsibilities and training to complete. She’d promised him they’d always stay friends, and she had meant it, then and afterward. In order for her to keep that promise, she had had to heal. And so sh
e had done.

  Certainly much had happened in those few short years to keep her busy and focused elsewhere. Five years ago, a powerful wizard named Kel’Thuzad had drawn the ire of the Kirin Tor with his dabbling in unnatural necromantic magic. He had left, suddenly and mysteriously, after being severely reprimanded and told in no uncertain terms to cease his experiments immediately. The mystery had been one of many things that had helped distract her over the last three years.

  Outside the gates of the magical city, things had happened too, though information was scattered, rumor-ridden, and chaotic. As best Jaina had been able to determine, the escaped orc Thrall, now calling himself the warchief of the new Horde, had begun attacking the internment camps and freeing the captive orcs. Later, Durnholde itself had been razed by this self-styled warchief, crumbling into ruins as Thrall called forth what Jaina had learned was the ancient shamanistic magic of his people. Blackmoore had fallen too, but by all accounts, he would not be mourned overlong. While troubled at what this new Horde might eventually mean for her people, Jaina could not find it in herself to mourn the loss of the camps. Not after what she had seen of them.

  Voices reached her ears, one raised in anger. So unusual was that in this place that Jaina slid to an abrupt halt.

  “As I told Terenas, your people are prisoners in their own lands. I repeat to you now—humanity is in peril. The tides of darkness have come again, and the whole world is poised upon the brink of war!” The voice was male, resonant and strong, and Jaina did not recognize it.

  “Ah, now I know who you must be. You are the rambling prophet who was the subject of King Terenas’s last letter. And I am no more interested in your babble than he is.” The other speaker was Antonidas, as calm as the stranger was insistent. Jaina knew that she should discreetly withdraw before she was noticed, but the same curiosity that had driven the girl she had been to go along with Arthas to spy on the orc encampments now prompted her to cloak herself in invisibility and learn more. She moved closer as quietly as possible. She could see them both now; the first speaker, whom Antonidas had sarcastically referred to as a “prophet,” clad in a cloak and hood decorated with black feathers, and her master on horseback. “I thought Terenas was quite plain in his opinion of your predictions.”

  “You must be wiser than the king! The end is near!”

  “I told you before, I’m not interested in this nonsense.” Clipped, calm, dismissive. Jaina knew that tone of voice.

  The prophet was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “Then I’ve wasted my time here.”

  Before Jaina’s startled gaze, the stranger’s shape blurred. It compressed and shifted, and where an instant before a man in a cowled robe had stood, now there was only a large black bird. With a caw of frustration, it sprang skyward, flapping its wings, and was gone.

  His eyes still on the interloper, now a vanishing dot in the blue sky, Antonidas said, “You can show yourself now, Jaina.”

  Heat washed over Jaina’s face. She murmured a counterspell and edged forward. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping, Master, but—”

  “It’s your inquisitive nature that I’ve come to rely on, child,” Antonidas said, chuckling a little. “That crazed fool’s convinced that the world’s about to end. That’s taking the whole ‘plague’ thing a bit far, in my opinion.”

  “Plague?” Jaina started.

  Antonidas sighed and dismounted, sending his steed off with an amiable slap to the rear. The horse pranced a little, then trotted obediently off to the stables, where a groom would attend to him. The archmage beckoned to his apprentice, who stepped forward and took the outstretched, gnarled hand. “You will recall I sent some messengers to Capital City a short time ago.”

  “I thought that was regarding the orc situtation.” Antonidas murmured an incantation, and a few moments later they appeared in his private quarters. Jaina loved this place; loved the untidiness, the smell of parchment and leather and ink, and the old chairs into which one could curl and lose oneself in knowledge. He gestured for her to sit and with the crook of a finger had a pitcher pour nectar for them.

  “Well, that was on the agenda, yes, but my representatives thought that a more dire threat was at our doorstep.”

  “More dire than the Horde re-forming?” Jaina extended her hand, and the crystal goblet, filled with golden liquid, floated into her palm.

  “Orcs, potentially, could be reasoned with. Disease cannot. There are reports of a plague spreading in the northlands. Something I think the Kirin Tor should be paying close attention to.”

  Jaina peered at him, her brow furrowing as she sipped. Generally disease fell under the auspices of the priests, not magi. Unless—

  “You think it’s magical in nature somehow?”

  He nodded his bald head. “It’s a strong possibility. And that’s why, Jaina Proudmoore, I am asking you to travel to these lands and investigate the matter.”

  Jaina nearly choked on her nectar. “Me?”

  He smiled gently. “You. You have learned nearly everything I have to teach. It’s time you utilized those skills outside of the safety of these towers.” His eyes twinkled again. “And I have arranged for a special envoy to assist you.”

  Arthas lounged against a tree, turning his face up to the weak sunlight and closing his eyes. He knew he radiated calmness and confidence; he had to. His men were worrying enough for all of them. He couldn’t let them see that he, too, was anxious. After all this time…how would they get along? Maybe it hadn’t been so smart a decision after all. But all the reports had been glowing, and he knew she had the most level of heads. It would work out all right. It had to.

  One of his captains, Falric, whom Arthas had known for years, stomped about, going a little way down one of the four paths at this crossroads, then returning to venture a short distance down another. His breath was visible in the chill, and his irritation was obviously growing by the minute. “Prince Arthas,” he finally ventured, “we’ve been waiting here for hours. Are you sure this friend of yours is coming?”

  Arthas’s lips curved in a slight smile as he answered without opening his eyes. The men had not been told, for reasons of security. “I’m sure.” He was. He thought about all the other times he had patiently waited for her. “Jaina usually runs a little late.”

  No sooner had the words left his lips than he heard a distant bellow and the barely decipherable words, “Me SMASH!”

  Like a panther dozing in the sun only to waken instantly alert, Arthas sprang to attention, hammer in hand. He started down the road, to see a slender, feminine shape racing toward him as she crested the hill into his vision. Behind her loomed what he knew to be an elemental—a swirling blob of aqua-colored water, with a crude head and limbs.

  And behind that…were two ogres.

  “By the Light!” cried Falric, starting to race forward. Arthas would have beaten him to the girl except for the fact that right at that moment, he caught sight of Jaina Proudmoore’s face.

  She was grinning.

  “Stay your blade, Captain,” Arthas said, feeling his own lips curve into a grin. “She can take care of herself.”

  And so indeed the lady could—and efficiently. At that precise moment Jaina wheeled and began to summon fire. Arthas realized that if he was going to feel sorry for anyone in this conflict, it was the poor baffled ogres, bellowing in pain as fire licked their pudgy, pale forms and staring in shock at the tiny human female responsible for such astonishing agony. One of them had the sense to run, but the other, seemingly unable to believe it, kept coming. Jaina sent a blast of rumbling orange flame at it again, and it cried out and collapsed, burning to death quickly, the rank scent of charred flesh filling Arthas’s nostrils.

  Jaina watched the second one flee, dusted her hands off, and nodded. She hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  “Gentlemen, meet Miss Jaina Proudmoore,” Arthas drawled, walking up to his childhood friend and former lover. “Special agent to the Kirin Tor, and one of the most talented sorceress
es in the land. Looks like you haven’t lost your touch.”

  She turned to face him, smiling up at him. There was no awkwardness in this moment, only happiness. She was glad to see him, and he her, the pleasure swelling inside him. “It’s good to see you again.”

  So much in so few, almost formal words. But she understood him. She had always understood him. Her eyes were sparkling as she replied, “You, too. It’s been a while since a prince escorted me anywhere.”

  “Yes,” he said, a slight hint of ruefulness coloring his tone. “It has.” Now it was awkward, and Jaina looked down and he cleared his throat. “Well, I guess we should get under way.”

  She nodded, dismissing the elemental with a wave of her hand. “I don’t need this fellow with such stalwart soldiers,” she said, gifting Falric and his men with one of her best smiles. “So, Your Highness, what do you know about this plague we’re to investigate?”

  “Not much,” Arthas was forced to confess as they fell into step. “Father just now sent me to work with you. Uther’s been fighting with me against the orcs most recently. But I’d guess that if the Dalaran wizards want to find out more about it, it’s got something to do with magic.”

  She nodded, still smiling, although her brow was starting to furrow in that familiar fashion. Arthas felt an odd pang as he noticed it. “Quite right. Although exactly how, I’m not sure. That’s why Master Antonidas sent me to observe and report back. We should check out the villages along the King’s road. Talk to the inhabitants—see if they know anything useful. Hopefully they have not been infected and this is nothing more serious than a localized outbreak of some sort.”

  He, who knew her so well, could hear the doubt in her voice. He understood it. If Antonidas really believed it wasn’t serious, he wouldn’t have sent his prized apprentice to check it out—nor would King Terenas have sent his son.