Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6

by Christie Golden

  “You!”

  He inclined his head, and gave her an odd smile that told her without words, I recognize you, too. This was the third time she had seen him—once when he was speaking with Antonidas, and once with Arthas. She had been invisible on both occasions—and clearly, her invisibility spell had not fooled him for a moment, either time.

  “The dead in this land might lie still for the time being, but don’t be fooled. Your prince will find only death in the cold north.”

  His blunt words made her flinch slightly. “Arthas is only doing what he believes is right.” The words were true, and she knew it. Whatever his failings were, he had been utterly sincere in his belief that the purging of Stratholme was the only option.

  The prophet’s gaze softened. “Commendable as that may be,” he said, “his passions will be his undoing. It falls to you now, young sorceress.”

  “What? Me?”

  “Antonidas has dismissed me. Terenas and Arthas as well. Both rulers of men and masters of magic have turned their faces from true understanding. But I think you may not.”

  The aura of power around him was palpable. Jaina could almost see it, swirling about him, heady and strong. He stepped closer to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. She gazed up into his eyes, confused.

  “You must lead your people west to the ancient lands of Kalimdor. Only there can you combat the shadow and save this world from the flame.”

  Staring into those eyes, Jaina knew he was right. There was no control, no compelling—just a knowing, deep and certain and down to her bones.

  “I—” Swallowing hard, she took one last look at the horrors wrought by the man she loved and still did love, and nodded.

  “I will do as you say.”

  And leave my Arthas to the destiny he has chosen. There is no other way.

  “It will take time, to gather them all. To make them believe me.”

  “I do not know that you have that much time left. So much of it has already been squandered.”

  Jaina lifted her chin. “I cannot go without trying. If you know so much about me, then surely you must know that.”

  The raven prophet seemed to relax marginally and smiled at her, squeezing her shoulder. “Do what you feel you must, but do not tarry overlong. The hourglass empties swiftly, and delay could be deadly.”

  She nodded, too overcome to speak. So many to talk to—Antonidas’s chief among them. If he would listen to anyone, she thought, it would be her. She would bear witness for these dead—for the folly of not retreating to Kalimdor while the living yet walked here.

  The prophet’s form dwindled and shifted, becoming once again that of the large black bird, and he flew off with a rustle of wings. And somehow as it brushed her face, the wind from those black wings did not smell of carrion, or smoke, or death. It smelled clean and fresh.

  It smelled of hope.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Northrend was the name of the land, Daggercap Bay the site where the Lordaeron fleet made harbor. The water, deep and choppy with an unforgiving wind, was a cold blue-gray. Sheer cliffs were dotted with tenacious pine trees soaring upward, providing a natural defense of the small, flat area where Arthas and his men would make camp. A waterfall tumbled down, crashing in a billow of spray from a great height. It was all in all more pleasant a place than he had expected, at least for the moment; certainly not the obvious home for a demon lord.

  Arthas leaped from the boat and slogged onto the shore, his eyes darting about, absorbing everything. The wind, keening like a lost child, stirred his long blond hair, caressing it with cold fingers. Beside him, one of the captains of the ships he had commandeered without consulting his father shivered and clapped his hands together, trying to warm them.

  “This is a Light-forsaken land, isn’t it? You can barely even see the sun! This howling wind cuts to the bone and you’re not even shaking.”

  Vaguely surprised, Arthas realized that the man was right. He felt the cold—felt it knifing into him—but he did not tremble.

  “Milord, are you all right?”

  “Captain, are all my forces accounted for?” Arthas didn’t bother to answer the question. It was a foolish one. Of course he wasn’t all right. He had been forced to slaughter the populace of an entire city in order to stop a worse atrocity. Jaina and Uther had both turned their backs on him. And a demon lord was awaiting his arrival.

  “Nearly. There are only a few ships that—”

  “Very well. Our first priority is to set up a base camp with proper defenses. There’s no telling what’s waiting for us out there in the shadows.” There, that would shut the man up and give him something to do. Arthas lent his assistance, working as hard as the men he commanded to erect basic shelter. He missed Jaina’s handiness with flames as they lit fires against the encroaching darkness and cold. Hell, he missed Jaina. But he would learn not to. She failed him when he most needed her, and he would not hold such people in his heart any longer. It needed to be strong, not soft; determined, not aching. There was no place in it for weakness, if he would defeat Mal’Ganis. There was no place in it for warmth.

  The night passed without incident. Arthas stayed awake in his tent until the small hours of the morning, perusing what incomplete maps he had been able to find. When at last he fell asleep, he dreamed, and it was both joyous and nightmarish. He was again a youth, with everything in the world to look forward to, riding the glorious white horse he so loved. Again, they were one, perfectly paired, and nothing would stop them. And even as he dreamed, Arthas felt the horror descend upon him as he urged Invincible to make the fatal jump. The anguish, not in the slightest abated by the fact that this was a mere dream and he knew it as such, ripped through him yet again. And again, he drew his sword, and stabbed his devoted friend through his heart.

  But this time…this time he realized that he was holding a completely different sword than the simple, basic weapon he had held at that dreadful moment. This time the sword was huge, two handed, beautifully fashioned. Runes glowed along its length. Cool blue mist wafted from it, cold as the snow in which Invincible lay. And when he withdrew the sword, Arthas did not find himself staring at a slain beast. Instead Invincible whickered and leaped to his feet, completely healed, somehow stronger than before. He seemed to glow now, his coat radiant rather than merely white, and Arthas bolted upright from where he had fallen asleep over the maps, tears in his eyes and a sob of joy on his lips. Surely, this was an omen.

  The morning dawned frigid and gray, and he was up before first light, eager to begin combing the land for signs of the dreadlord. He was here; Arthas knew it.

  But that first day, they found nothing more than a few pockets of undead. As the days passed, with more and more territory charted, Arthas’s spirits started to sink.

  Intellectually, he realized that Northrend was a vast continent, barely explored. Mal’Ganis was a dreadlord, yes, and the clusters of undead they had found thus far would likely be a good indicator of his presence. But not the only one. He could be anywhere—or nowhere. This whole revelation that he would be in Northrend could have been nothing more than an elaborate trick to get Arthas out of his way, so that the demon could move somewhere else entirely and—

  No. That way lay madness. The dreadlord was arrogant, certain he would eventually best the human prince. Arthas had to believe he was here. Had to. Of course, that could also mean that Jaina had been right. That Mal’Ganis was indeed here, and had laid a trap for him. None of these thoughts was pleasant, and the more Arthas chewed on them, the more agitated he became.

  It was well into the second week of searching before Arthas found anything to offer him hope. They had marched off in a different direction, after the initial pair of scouts returned bearing news of large clusters of undead. They found the reported undead—lying in pieces on the frozen earth. Before Arthas could even form a thought, he and his men had come under fire.

  “Take cover!” Arthas cried, and they dove for whatever they could
find—tree, rock, even snowbanks. Almost as soon as it had started, the attack ceased and a shout rang out.

  “Bloody hell! Ye’re not undead! Ye’re all alive!”

  It was a voice that Arthas recognized and had never thought to encounter in this desolate land. Only one person he knew could swear so enthusiastically, and for a moment, he forgot why he was here, what he was searching for, and felt only delight and fond remembrance of a time long past.

  “Muradin?” Arthas cried in shock and pleasure. “Muradin Bronzebeard, is that you?”

  The stout dwarf stepped out from behind the row of weapons, peering cautiously. The scowl on his face was replaced by an enormous grin. “Arthas, lad! I never imagined that ye’d be th’ one tae come tae our rescue!”

  He strode forward, his face even more hidden by the bushy beard Arthas remembered from his youth, if such a thing was possible, his eyes more lined but now twinkling with pleasure. He spread his arms, marched up to Arthas, and embraced the prince about the waist. Arthas laughed—Light, it had been so long since he had laughed—and hugged his old friend and trainer back. As they drew apart, the meaning of Muradin’s words registered on Arthas.

  “Rescue? Muradin, I didn’t even know you were here. I came to—” He snapped his mouth closed on the words. He didn’t know how Muradin would react yet, and so simply smiled at the dwarf. “That can all wait,” he said instead. “Come, my old friend. We’ve got a base camp set up not too far from here. Looks like you and your men could use a hot meal.”

  “If ye have ale as well, that’d be a yes from me,” Muradin grinned.

  There was a celebratory air as Arthas, Muradin, his second in command Baelgun, and the other dwarves marched into camp that even managed to take a slight edge off the never-ending cold of the place. Arthas knew that dwarves were used to cold climates and were a solid, strong people, but he noted the looks of relief and gratitude that flitted across the bearded faces as they were handed bowls of steaming hot stew. It was difficult, but Arthas bit his tongue against the questions that wanted to come pouring out of him until Muradin and his men were taken care of. He then beckoned Muradin to join him a ways away from the center of the camp, near where his own personal tent was set up.

  “So,” he said, as his former trainer began shoveling hot food down with the regularity and seemingly unstoppable quality of a well-built gnomish machine, “what were you doing up here anyway?”

  Muradin swallowed his bite of food and reached for some ale to wash it down with. “Well, lad, this isn’t necessarily something tae be sharin’ wi’ everyone.”

  Arthas nodded his understanding. Only a few of the members of the fleet he’d commandeered knew the whole story of why they were in Northrend. “I appreciate your trusting me, Muradin.”

  The dwarf clapped him on the shoulder. “Ye’ve grown up right bonny, ye have, lad. If ye can find yer way tae this forsaken land, ye’ve a right tae know what me and me men are doing here. I’m looking fer a legend.” His eyes twinkled as he gulped some ale, wiped his mouth and continued. “My people have always been interested in rare items, ye ken tha’.”

  “Indeed.” Arthas recalled hearing something about Muradin helping to form something called the Explorer’s League. It was based in Ironforge, and its members traveled the world to gather knowledge and search for archeological treasures. “So you’re on League business here?”

  “Aye, indeed. I’ve been here many times before. Oddly compelling land, this one. Doesn’t give up its secrets easily…an’ that makes it intriguin’.” He fished in his pack and came out with a leather-bound journal that looked like it had seen better days and shoved it at Arthas with a grunt. The prince took it and began to thumb through the pages. There were hundreds of sketches of creatures, landmarks, and ruins. “There’s more here than meets the eye at first glance.”

  Looking at the images, Arthas was forced to agree. “Most of the time, it’s just research,” Muradin continued. “Learnin’.”

  Arthas closed the book and gave it back to Muradin. “When you saw us you were surprised—not that we were undead, but that we weren’t. How long have you been here—and what is it you’ve learned?”

  Muradin scraped the last bit of stew from his bowl, wiped it clean with a hunk of bread, and ate that as well. He sighed a little. “Ah, I do miss th’ pastries yer palace baker used tae make.” He fished for his pipe. “An’ in answer tae yer question, long enough to know that something is amiss here. There’s some…force growin’. It’s bad and it’s getting badder. I talked to yer father; I think this power is nae happy with just sitting here in Northrend.”

  Arthas fought back a double rush of both worry and excitement, trying to appear composed. “You think it might pose a danger to my people?”

  Muradin leaned back and lit the pipe. The smell of his preferred tobacco, its familiarity comforting in this alien land, teased Arthas’s nostrils. “Aye, I do. I think it’s part o’ the creation o’ these pesky undead.”

  Arthas decided it was time to share what he knew. He spoke quickly but calmly, telling Muradin about the plagued grain. About Kel’Thuzad, and the Cult of the Damned, and his own first horrifying encounter with the transformed farmers. About learning that Mal’Ganis, a dreadlord in the flesh, was the one behind the plague, and about the demon’s taunting invitation to come here to Northrend.

  He mentioned Stratholme obliquely. “The plague had reached even there,” he said. “I made sure that Mal’Ganis had no more corpses to use for his own sick purposes.” That was enough; it was all true, and he was not certain that Muradin would understand the awful necessity of what Arthas had been forced to do. Jaina and Uther certainly hadn’t, and they’d actually seen what Arthas had been up against.

  Muradin grunted. “Bad business, that. Perhaps this certain artifact I’m lookin’ fer can be of use to you in fighting this dreadlord. As far as rare an’ magical things go, this one’s a beaut. Information about it has only recently begun to surface, but ever since we learned about it—well, we’ve been looking long and hard. Have a few special magical items tae try an’ track it down, but no luck yet.” He lifted his eyes from Arthas and looked beyond the prince, toward the wilderness that loomed. For a moment, the twinkle in his eyes abated, replaced by a somberness that the more youthful Arthas had never seen there.

  Arthas waited, burning with curiosity, but not wanting to appear the impatient child Muradin no doubt remembered him as being.

  Muradin refocused, regarding Arthas intently. “We’re searching for a runeblade called Frostmourne.”

  Frostmourne. Arthas felt a slight shiver in his soul at the word. An ominous name, for a weapon of legend. Runeblades were not unheard of, but they were extremely rare and terribly powerful weapons. He glanced over at his hammer, sitting propped up against a tree where he’d placed it after returning from his discovery of Muradin. It was a beautiful weapon, and he had cherished it, although recently the Light seemed to shine from it sluggishly, sometimes not at all.

  But a runeblade—

  A sudden certainty seized him, as if fate were whispering in his ear. Northrend was a vast place. Surely it was not coincidence that he had encountered Muradin. If he had Frostmourne—surely he could slay Mal’Ganis. End this plague. Save his people. The dwarf and he had come together for a reason. It was destiny at work.

  Muradin was speaking and Arthas jerked his attention back to him. “We came here tae recover Frostmourne, but the closer we come tae doin’ so, the more undead we encounter. And I’m too old tae think that mere coincidence.”

  Arthas smiled softly. So Muradin, too, did not believe in coincidence. The certainty inside his gut grew. “You think Mal’Ganis doesn’t want us to find it,” Arthas murmured.

  “I wouldna think that he’d be happy tae see ye charging at him wi’ that kind o’ weapon in yer fist, that’s true enough.”

  “It sounds like we can help each other, then,” Arthas said. “We’ll help you and your League find Frostmourne, and
you can help us against Mal’Ganis.”

  “A sound plan,” Muradin agreed, the smoke writhing up about him in fragrant blue-black plumes. “Arthas, me lad…any more o’ that ale available?”

  The days passed. Muradin and Arthas compared notes. They had a double quest now—Mal’Ganis and the runeblade. Eventually they decided that the wisest course of action would be to press inward and send the fleet northward, to establish a new camp there. They found themselves fighting not only undead, but famished and vicious packs of wolves, strange beings that seemed to be part wolverine and part human, and a race of trolls that seemed as at home here in the frigid north as their cousins did in the steamy jungles of Stranglethorn. Muradin was not as surprised as the human prince to find such beings; apparently small clusters of similar so-called “ice trolls” lurked near the dwarven capital of Ironforge.

  Arthas learned from Muradin that the undead had bases here; strange, ziggurat-like structures, pulsing with dark magic, that had belonged to an older and presumably extinct race, since the former residents didn’t seem to object. So not only did the walking corpses themselves need to be destroyed, their refuges needed to be as well. Yet each day seemed to bring Arthas no nearer to his goal. There were plenty of traces of Mal’Ganis’s evil, but none of the dreadlord himself.

  Nor was Muradin’s quest for the enticing Frostmourne more successful. The clues, arcane and mundane both, were narrowing the search area, but thus far, the runeblade remained only a legend for all the reality it held for them.

  The day when things changed, Arthas was in a foul temper. He was returning to their makeshift traveling camp, hungry and tired and cold, after yet another fruitless foray. So lost in his irritation was he that it was several seconds before comprehension dawned.

  The guards were not at their posts. “What the—” He turned to look at Muradin, who immediately gripped his axe. There were no bodies, of course; if the undead had attacked while he was away, the corpses would have been raised in the cruelest example of conscription the world had ever known. But there should have been blood, signs of a struggle…but there was none.