Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6

by Christie Golden

  She would not follow him too closely. She was invisible, but not silent. Jaina squeezed her horse with her knees into a canter to pursue the bright, brooding prince of Lordaeron.

  Arthas kicked the horse hard, angry that it was not going faster, angry that it was not Invincible, angry that he had not figured out what was going on in time to stop it. It was almost overwhelming. His father had had to deal with orcs—creatures from another world, flooding into their own, brutal and violent and bent on conquest. That seemed like child’s play to Arthas now. How would his father and the Alliance have fared against this—a plague that not only killed people, but in a sick twist that only a deranged mind would find amusing animated their corpses to fight their own friends and families? Would Terenas have done any better? One moment Arthas thought he would have—that Terenas would have figured out the puzzle in time to stop it, to save the innocent—and the next he rationalized that no one could have done so. Terenas would have been as helpless as he in the face of this horror.

  So deep in thought was he that he almost didn’t see the man standing in the road, and it was with a sharp, startled yank that he pulled his mount to the side just in time.

  Chagrined, worried, and furious at being made so, Arthas snapped, “Fool! What are you doing? I could have run you down!”

  The man was unlike any Arthas had ever seen before, and yet he struck the youth as somewhat familiar. Tall, broad-shouldered, he wore a cloak that seemed to be made entirely out of shiny black feathers. His features were shadowed by the cowl, but his eyes were bright as they peered up at Arthas. A beard streaked with gray parted, revealing a white smile.

  “You would not have harmed me, and I required your attention,” he said, his voice deep and mild. “I spoke to your father, young one. He would not hear me. Now I come to you.” He bowed, and Arthas frowned. It seemed to be—mocking. “We must talk.”

  Arthas snorted. Now he knew why this mysterious, dramatically clad stranger seemed so familiar. He was some kind of mystic—a self-styled prophet, Terenas had said; able to transform into a bird. He’d had the gall to come right into Terenas’s own throne room, with some kind of doomsday blather.

  “I have no time for this,” Arthas growled, gathering up his horse’s reins.

  “Listen to me, boy.” There was no mocking note in the stranger’s voice now. His voice cracked like a whip and despite himself Arthas listened. “This land is lost! The shadow has already fallen, and nothing you do will deter it. If you truly wish to save your people, lead them across the sea…to the west.”

  Arthas almost laughed. His father had been right—this was a madman. “Flee? My place is here, and my only course is to defend my people! I will not abandon them to this hideous existence. I will find the one behind this and destroy him. You’re a fool if you think otherwise.”

  “A fool, am I? I suppose I am, to think the son would be wiser than the father.” The bright eyes looked troubled. “Your choice is already made. You will not be swayed by one who sees farther than you.”

  “I’ve only your word that you see farther. I know what I see, and what I have seen, and that is that my people need me here!”

  The prophet smiled now, sadly. “It is not only with our eyes that we see, Prince Arthas. It is with our wisdom and our hearts. I will leave you one final prediction. Just remember, the harder you strive to slay your enemies, the faster you’ll deliver your people into their hands.”

  Arthas opened his mouth for a furious retort, but at that instant the stranger’s shape shifted. The cloak seemed to close about him like a second skin. Wings, jet black and glossy, sprouted from his body even as he shrank to the size of an ordinary raven. With a final harsh caw that sounded frustrated to Arthas, the bird that had been a man leaped into the air, wheeled once, and flew off. He watched it go, vaguely troubled. The man had seemed…so certain….

  “I’m sorry for concealing myself, Arthas.” Jaina’s voice coming out of nowhere. Startled, Arthas whipped his head around, trying to find her. She materialized in front of him, looking contrite. “I just wanted to—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  He saw her start in surprise, saw those blue eyes widen, and instantly regretted snapping at her. But she shouldn’t have sneaked up on him like this, spied on him like this.

  “He came to Antonidas, too,” she said after a moment, doggedly continuing with what she had intended to say despite his reprimand. “I—I have to say that I sensed tremendous power about him, Arthas.” She rode closer to him, peering up at him. “This plague of the undead—nothing like this has ever been seen before in the history of the world. It’s not just another battle, or another war—it’s something much bigger and darker than that. And maybe you can’t use the same tactics to win. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he can see things we can’t—maybe he does know what will happen.”

  He turned away from her, grinding his teeth. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s some ally of this Mal’Ganis. Or maybe he’s just some crazy hermit. Nothing he can say will make me abandon my homeland, Jaina. I don’t care if that madman has seen the future. Let’s go.”

  They rode in silence for a moment. Then Jaina said quietly, “Uther will be following. He just needed some extra time to prepare the men.”

  Arthas stared straight ahead, still fuming. Jaina tried again.

  “Arthas, you shouldn’t—”

  “I am sick of people trying to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do!” The words burst from him, startling himself as much as Jaina. “What’s going on here is beyond horrible, Jaina. I can’t even find words to describe it. And I’m doing everything I possibly can. If you’re not going to support my decisions then maybe you don’t belong here.” He eyed her, his expression softening. “You look so tired, Jaina. Maybe…maybe you should go back.”

  She shook her head, staring straight ahead, not meeting his gaze. “You need me here. I can help.”

  The anger bled away from him, and he reached for her hand, closing fingers encased in metal over hers gently. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that and I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re here. I’m always glad of your company.” He bent and kissed her hand. Color came to her cheeks and she smiled at him, the furrow in her brow uncreasing.

  “Dear Arthas,” she said softly. He squeezed her hand and let it go.

  They rode hard the rest of the day, not speaking much, and halted to make camp as the sun was going down. Both of them were too weary to hunt for any fresh meat, so they simply took out some dried meat, apples, and bread. Arthas stared at the loaf in his hand. From the ovens of the palace, baked with grain grown locally—not from Andorhal. It was wholesome fare, nourishing and delicious, smelling yeasty and good and not sickly sweet. A simple, basic food, something that everyone, anyone, should be able to eat without fear.

  His throat suddenly closed up and he placed the bread down, unable to eat a bite, and he put his head in his hands. For a moment he felt overwhelmed, as if a tidal wave of despair and helplessness washed over him. Then Jaina was there, kneeling beside him, resting her head on his shoulder while he struggled to compose himself. She said nothing; she did not need to, her simple, supportive presence was all he needed. Then with a deep sigh he turned to her and took her in his arms.

  She responded, kissing him deeply, needing comfort and reassurance from him as much as he did from her. Arthas ran his hands through her silky golden hair and breathed her scent. And for a few brief hours that night, they permitted themselves to be lost in each other, pushing away thoughts of death and horror and plagued grain and prophets and choices, their world narrow and tender and comprised only of the two of them.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Still half asleep, Jaina awoke and reached out a hand for Arthas. He was not there. Blinking, she sat up. He was already awake and dressed, cooking some sort of hot cereal for them. He smiled when he saw her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Jaina tentatively returned the smile and reached for her robe, slipping it on and combing her hair with
her fingers.

  “There’s something I learned,” Arthas said without preamble. “Last night—I didn’t want to mention it. But you need to know.” His voice was flat and Jaina felt something inside her quail. At least he wasn’t screaming, like he had been yesterday—but somehow this was worse. He ladled up a bowl of steaming grains and brought it over to her. She spooned it automatically into her mouth as he continued to speak.

  “This plague—the undead—” He took a deep breath. “We knew that the grain was plagued. We knew that it killed people. But it’s worse than that, Jaina. It doesn’t just kill them.”

  The words seemed to catch in his throat. Jaina sat there for a moment, as understanding dawned. She thought she’d throw up the grains she’d just eaten. Her breath seemed to come with difficulty.

  “It…turns them, somehow. It makes them into the undead…doesn’t it?” Please tell me I’m wrong, Arthas.

  He didn’t. Instead he nodded his golden head. “That’s why there were so many of them so quickly. The grain reached Hearthglen a short time ago—long enough to be milled into flour and baked into bread.”

  Jaina stared at him. The implications of this—she couldn’t even wrap her mind around them.

  “That’s why I rushed off yesterday. I knew I couldn’t take Mal’Ganis by myself, but—Jaina, I just couldn’t sit around and—and mend armor and make camp, you know?” She nodded dumbly. She did understand, now. “And that prophet—I don’t care how powerful you think he is. I can’t just leave and let all of Lordaeron turn into this—this—Mal’Ganis, whatever, whomever he is, has got to be stopped. We’ve got to find every last crate of this plagued grain and destroy it.”

  The telling of this shocking information seemed to agitate Arthas again, and he got to his feet, pacing. “Where the hell is Uther?” he said. “He had all night to ride here.”

  Jaina placed aside the half-eaten cereal, got to her feet, and finished dressing. Her mind was working a thousand miles a minute, trying to comprehend the situation fully and dispassionately, trying to think of some way to combat it. Wordlessly they broke camp and headed for Stratholme.

  The ashy grayness of dawn only darkened as the clouds closed off the sun. Rain began to fall, chilly and stinging. Both Arthas and Jaina flipped the hoods of their cloaks up, but that did little to keep Jaina dry, and she was shivering by the time they reached the gates of the great city. Almost as they drew rein, Jaina heard sounds behind her and turned to see Uther and his men coming up the dirt road that was now almost pure mud. By this point, Arthas had worked himself up again, and he turned to Uther with a bitter grin.

  “Glad you could make it, Uther,” he snapped.

  Uther was a patient man, but he lost his temper now. Arthas and Jaina were not the only ones under strain. “Watch your tone with me, boy! You may be the prince, but I’m still your superior as a paladin!”

  “As if I could forget,” Arthas retorted. He moved quickly to the top of a rise, so he could look over the walls and into the city. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Signs of life, of normalcy, perhaps. Signs that they’d gotten here in time. Anything to give him hope that he could still somehow do something. “Listen, Uther, there’s something about the plague you should know. The grain—”

  The wind shifted as he spoke, and the scent that reached his nostrils was not an unpleasant one. Nonetheless, Arthas felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. The smell, the strange, unique scent of bread baked with the tainted grain, unmistakable on the air damp with rain.

  Light, no. Already milled, already baked, already—

  The blood drained from Arthas’s face. His eyes widened, staring starkly in horrified comprehension. “We’re too late. We’re too damned late! The grain—these people—” He tried again. “These people have all been infected.”

  “Arthas—” Jaina began in a low voice.

  “They may look fine now, but it’s just a matter of time before they turn into the undead!”

  “What?” cried Uther. “Lad, have you gone insane?”

  “No,” Jaina said. “He’s right. If they’ve eaten the grain, they’re infected—and if they’re infected…they’ll turn.” She was thinking furiously. There had to be something they could do. Antonidas once told her, if a thing is magical in origin, then magic can combat it. If they just had a little time to think, if they could calm down and react from logic and not emotion, perhaps a cure could—

  “This entire city must be purged.”

  Arthas’s statement was blunt and brutal. Jaina blinked. Surely he hadn’t meant that.

  “How can you even consider that?” Uther cried, marching up to his former student. “There’s got to be some other way. This isn’t a blighted apple crop, this is a city full of human beings!”

  “Damn it, Uther! We have to do it!” Arthas shoved his face within an inch of Uther’s, and for a dreadful moment Jaina was convinced they’d draw weapons on each other.

  “Arthas, no! We can’t do that!” The words left her lips before she could stop them. He whirled on her, his sea-colored eyes now stormy with anger and hurt and despair. She realized immediately that he truly thought this was the only option—the only way to save other, uncorrupted lives was to sacrifice these cursed ones, these that could no longer be salvaged. His face softened slightly as she rushed on, trying to get the words out before he could interrupt her. “Listen to me. We don’t know how many people are infected. Some of them might not have eaten any of the grain at all—others might not have eaten a lethal dose. We don’t even know what a lethal dose is yet. We know so little—we can’t just slaughter them like animals out of our own fear!”

  It was the wrong thing to say, and she watched as Arthas’s face closed up. “I’m trying to protect the innocent, Jaina. That’s what I swore to do.”

  “They are innocent—they’re victims! They didn’t ask for this! Arthas, there are children in there. We don’t know if it affects them. There’s too much unknown for such a—a drastic solution.”

  “What of those who are infected?” he asked with a sudden, frightening quiet. “They’ll kill those children, Jaina. They’ll try to kill us…and spread out from here and keep killing. They’re going to die regardless, and when they rise, they’ll do things that in life they would never, ever have wanted to do. What would you choose, Jaina?”

  She hadn’t expected that. She looked from Arthas to Uther, then back again. “I—I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.” He was right, and despairingly, she knew it. “Wouldn’t you rather die now than die from this plague? Die a clean death as a thinking, living human being rather than be raised as an undead to attack everyone, everything you loved in life?”

  Her face crumpled. “I…that would be my personal choice, yes. But we can’t make that choice for them. Don’t you see?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t see. We need to purge this city before any of them have a chance to escape and spread the contagion. Before any of them turn. It’s a kindness and it’s the only solution to stop this plague right here, right now, dead in its tracks. And that is exactly what I intend to do.”

  Tears of anguish burned in Jaina’s eyes.

  “Arthas—give me a little time. Just a day or two. I can teleport back to Antonidas and we can call an emergency meeting. Maybe we can figure out some way to—”

  “We don’t have a day or two!” The words exploded from Arthas. “Jaina, this affects people within hours. Maybe minutes. I—I saw it at Hearthglen. There’s no time for deliberation or discussion. We have to act. Now. Or it will be too late.” He turned to Uther, dismissing Jaina.

  “As your future king, I order you to purge this city!”

  “You’re not my king yet, boy! Nor would I obey that command even if you were!”

  The silence that fell crackled with tension.

  Arthas…beloved, best friend…please don’t do this.

  “Then I must consider this an act of treason.” Arthas’s voice was c
old, clipped. If he had struck her across the face, Jaina could not have been more shocked.

  “Treason?” Uther spluttered. “Have you lost your mind, Arthas?”

  “Have I? Lord Uther, by my right of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of your command and suspend your paladins from service.”

  “Arthas!” Jaina yelped, her tongue freed in her shock. “You can’t just—”

  He whirled on her furiously and spat, “It’s done!”

  She stared at him. He turned to look at his men, who had stood by silent and wary as the argument had progressed. “Those of you who have the will to save this land, follow me! The rest of you…get out of my sight!”

  Jaina felt sick and dizzy. He was really going to do this. He was going to march into Stratholme and cut down every living man, woman, and child within its walls. She swayed and clutched the reins of her horse. It lowered its head and whickered at her, blowing warm breath from its soft muzzle across her cheek. She was fiercely envious of its ignorance.

  She wondered if Uther would attack his former pupil. But he was bound by an oath to serve his prince, even if he had been relieved of command. She saw the tendons on his neck stand out like cords, could almost hear him gritting his teeth. But he did not attack his liege.

  Loyalty, however, did not still his tongue. “You’ve just crossed a terrible threshold, Arthas.”

  Arthas looked at him a moment longer, then shrugged. He turned to Jaina, his eyes searching hers, and for a moment—just a moment—he looked like himself, earnest, young, a little scared.

  “Jaina?”

  The single word was so much more. It was both question and plea. Even as she stared at him, frozen like the bird before the snake, he reached out a gauntleted hand to her. She stared at it for a moment, thinking of all the times that hand had clasped hers warmly, had caressed her, had been lain on the wounded and glowed with healing light.