Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6

by Christie Golden

  “Too easy?” Arthas shot him a disbelieving glance. “It’s taken you long enough to find it. And we had to fight these things to get to it.”

  “Bah,” snorted Muradin. “Everything I ken about artifacts is telling me that there’s something as fishy here as the Booty Bay docks.” He sighed, his brow still furrowed. “Wait…there’s an inscription on the dais. Let me see if I can read this. It might tell us something.”

  Both of them advanced, Muradin to kneel and peer at the writing, Arthas to draw closer to the beckoning sword. Arthas gave the inscription that so intrigued Muradin a cursory glance. It was not written in any language he knew, but the dwarf seemed to be able to read it, judging by how his eyes flickered across the letters.

  Arthas lifted a hand and stroked the ice that separated them—smooth, slick, deathly cold—ice, yes, but there was something unusual about it. It wasn’t simply frozen water. He didn’t know how he could tell, but he could. There was something very powerful, almost unearthly about it.

  Frostmourne…

  “Aye, I thought I recognized this. It’s written in Kalimag—the elemental language,” Muradin continued. He frowned as he read. “It’s…a warning.”

  “Warning? Warning of what?” Perhaps shattering the ice would damage the sword somehow, Arthas thought. The unnatural ice block itself, though, seemed to have been—almost cut from another, larger piece of ice. Muradin translated slowly. Arthas listened with half an ear, his eyes on the sword.

  “Whosoever takes up this blade shall wield power eternal. Just as th’ blade rends flesh, so must power scar th’ spirit.” The dwarf leaped to his feet, looking more agitated than Arthas had ever seen him. “Och, I should’ve known. Th’ blade is cursed! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Arthas’s heart gave a strange wrench at Muradin’s exclamation. Leave? Leave this sword behind, hovering in its frozen prison, untouched, unused, with such vast power to offer him? “Power eternal,” the inscription had promised, along with the threat of scarring the spirit.

  “My spirit is already scarred,” Arthas said. And so it was. It had been scarred by the needless death of a beloved steed, by the horror of watching the dead rise, by the betrayal of one he loved—yes, he had loved Jaina Proudmoore, he could say it now in this moment where his soul seemed to lie naked in front of the sword’s judgment. It had been scarred by being forced to slaughter hundreds, by the need to lie to his men and forever silence those who would question and disobey him. It had been scarred by so very much. Surely the marks left by the power to right a horrible wrong could not be greater than these.

  “Arthas, lad,” Muradin said, his rough voice pleading. “Ye’ve enough tae deal wi’ without bringing a curse on yer head.”

  “A curse?” Arthas laughed bitterly. “I would gladly bear any curse to save my homeland.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Muradin shiver. “Arthas, ye ken I’m a solid one, no given tae flights o’ fancy. But I tell ye, this is bad business, lad. Leave it be. Let it stay here, lost and forgotten. Mal’Ganis is here, well, that’s fine. Let him freeze his demonic arse here in the wilderness. Forget this business and let’s lead your men home.”

  An image of the men suddenly filled Arthas’s mind. He saw them, and beside them he saw the hundreds that had already fallen to this horrible plague. Fallen only to rise, unthinking rotting hunks of flesh. What of them? What of their souls, their suffering, their sacrifice? Another image appeared—a huge piece of ice, the same ice that now encased Frostmourne. He saw now where this chunk of ice had come from. It was part of something larger, stronger—and it, with the runeblade inside it, had been somehow sent to him to avenge those who had fallen. A voice whispered in his mind: The dead demand vengeance.

  What was a handful of living men compared to the torment of those who had fallen in so horrible a fashion?

  “Damn the men!”

  The words seemed to explode from someplace deep in his gut. “I have a duty to the dead. Nothing shall prevent me from having my revenge, old friend.” Now he tore his gaze away from the sword long enough to meet Muradin’s worried gaze, and his face softened slightly. “Not even you.”

  “Arthas—I taught ye tae fight. I wanted tae help ye be a good warrior as well as a good king. But part o’ being a good warrior is picking which battles tae fight—and which weapons tae fight wi’.” He stabbed a stubby forefinger at Frostmourne. “And that’s a weapon ye’ll nae want to be putting in your arsenal.”

  Arthas put both hands up against the ice that was the sword’s sheath and brought his face to within an inch of the smooth surface. As if from somewhere far away, he heard Muradin still speaking.

  “Listen tae me, lad. We’ll find another way tae save yer people. Let’s leave now, go back and find that way.”

  Muradin was wrong. He simply didn’t understand. Arthas had to do this. If he walked away now, he would have failed, again, and he couldn’t let that happen. He had been thwarted at every turn.

  Not this time.

  He believed in the Light, because he could see it and had used it, and he believed in ghosts and the walking dead, because he had fought them. But until this moment, he had scoffed at the idea of unseen powers, of spirits of places or things. But now, his heart racing in anticipation and with a yearning, a craving that seemed to gnaw at his very soul, the words came from his lips as if of their own accord, laced with his dreadful wanting.

  “Now, I call out to the spirits of this place,” he said, his breath frosting in the cold, still air. Just beyond his reach, Frostmourne hung, suspended, awaiting him. “Whatever you be, good or ill or neither or both. I can feel you here. I know you are listening. I’m ready. I understand. And I tell you now—I will give anything, or pay any price, if only you will help me save my people.”

  For a long, terrible moment, nothing happened. His breath frosted, faded, frosted again, and cold sweat dotted his brow. He had offered everything he had—had he been refused? Had he failed yet again?

  And then with a low groan that made his breath catch, a sudden crack ran up the smooth surface of the ice. It raced its way upward, zigzagging and spreading, until Arthas could barely glimpse the sword it held within its heart. Then he was stumbling backward, clutching his ears at the sudden loud cracking noise that filled the chamber.

  The icy casket encasing the sword exploded. Shards flew across the chamber, swords themselves, sharp and jagged. They shattered against the unyielding stone floor and walls, but even as Arthas dropped to his knees, his arms flying up automatically to cover his head, he heard a cry suddenly cut off.

  “Muradin!”

  The impact of the ice shard had knocked the dwarf back several feet. Now he lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, a spear of ice impaling his midsection, the blood sluggishly flowing around it. His eyes were closed and he was limp. Arthas scrambled to his feet and hastened over to his old friend and trainer, tugging off his gauntlet. He slipped an arm around the limp form, placing his hand on the wound, staring at it, willing the Light to come and limn his hands with healing energy. Guilt racked him.

  So this was the dreadful price. Not his own life, but that of a friend. Someone who had cared for him, taught him, supported him. He bowed his head, tears stinging his eyes, and prayed.

  It’s my folly. My price. Please—

  And then, like a familiar caress from a loved friend, he felt it. The Light raced through him, comforting and warm, and he bit back a sob as he saw the glow again begin to embrace his hand. He had fallen so far, but it wasn’t too late. The Light had not abandoned him. All he needed to do was drink it in, open his heart to it. Muradin would not die. He could heal him, and together they—

  Something stirred at the back of his neck. No, no, not the back of his neck…the back of his mind. He looked up quickly—

  And stared in wonder.

  It had flung itself free to imbed itself in front of him, its blue-white runes enveloping it in a cold and glorious light. His own Light f
aded from his hands as he rose to his feet, almost hypnotized. Frostmourne was waiting for him, a lover needing the touch of the desired one to waken to full glory.

  The whispering in the back of his mind continued. This was the path. It was foolish to trust in the Light. It had failed him, repeatedly. It had not been there to save Invincible, had not been enough to stop the inexorable march of this plague that was on its way to wiping out the population of his kingdom. The power, the strength of Frostmourne—that was the only thing that could stand against the might of a dreadlord.

  Muradin was a casualty of this awful war. But hopefully, his sacrifice would be the last. Arthas got to his feet and took unsteady steps toward the radiant weapon, his hand, still wet with the blood of his friend, outstretched and trembling. It closed on the shaft and his fingers curled around it, fitting it perfectly, as if the one was made for the other.

  Cold shot through him, shivering up his arms, spreading over his body and into his heart. It was painful for a moment and he knew a hint of alarm, and then suddenly it was all right. It was all all right; Frostmourne was his and he was its, and its voice was speaking, whispering, caressing inside his mind as if it had always been there.

  With a cry of joy, he lifted the weapon, gazing at it in wonder and fierce pride. He would make things right—he, Arthas Menethil, and the glorious Frostmourne that was now as much a part of him as his mind or his heart or his breath, and he listened intently to the secrets it revealed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Arthas and his men ran toward the encampment to discover that the battle had not abated in his absence. The numbers of his men had dwindled, but there were no corpses. He did not expect to see any—those who fell rose as adversaries, under the command of the dreadlord.

  Falric, his armor spattered with gore, cried out to him. “Prince Arthas! We’ve done what we could and—Where is Muradin? We can’t hold out any longer!”

  “Muradin is dead,” Arthas said. The cold but comforting essence of the sword seemed to abate a little, and pain swelled in his heart. Muradin had paid the price—but it was worth it, if it would fell Mal’Ganis. The dwarf would have agreed, had he known everything, understood as Arthas understood. Muradin’s men looked stricken even as they continued to fire round after round into the waves of undead that continued to pound against them. “His death was not in vain. Take heart, Captain. The enemy will not stand long against the might of Frostmourne!”

  As they watched, disbelief washing over their faces, Arthas charged into the fray.

  He had thought he fought well with his blessed hammer, now lying discarded and forgotten in the icy vault where Frostmourne had once been imprisoned, but it was nothing to the damage he dealt now. Frostmourne felt more like an extension of himself rather than a weapon. He quickly found a rhythm and began to slice the undead down as if they were so many stalks of grain falling before the harvesting scythe. How balanced and perfect a weapon it was in his hands. One arcing blow severed the head from the shoulders of a ghoul. He swept Frostmourne around, scattering the bones of a skelton. Another rhythmic stroke downed a third foe. They fell all around him, the rotting bodies beginning to pile up, as he cut a path through them. At one point, looking for his next enemy, he caught sight of Falric staring at him. There was awe on the familiar face, but also shock and—horror? Only at the carnage he was wreaking, surely. Frostmourne was all but singing in his hands.

  The wind picked up and the snow began to fall, thick and fast. Frostmourne seemed to approve, for the increased snowfall did not seem to hamper Arthas in the slightest. Again and again the blade found its mark, and more and more undead things fell. At last, the minions had been dealt with. It was time for their master.

  “Mal’Ganis, you coward!” Arthas cried, even his voice sounding different in his own ears now, as it carried easily over the howling wind. “Come show yourself! You taunted me into coming here, now stand and face me!”

  And then the demon lord was there, bigger than Arthas remembered, smirking down at the prince. He straightened to his full imposing height, his wing beating the air, his tail lashing. The undead warriors at his command stilled as he casually flicked a finger.

  Arthas was prepared for the dreadlord’s frightening appearance this time. It did not rattle him. Staring at his enemy, he wordlessly lifted Frostmourne, and the runes etched along its length gleamed. Mal’Ganis recognized the weapon and a hint of a frown curved his blue lips.

  “So, you’ve taken up Frostmourne at the expense of your comrades’ lives, just as the Dark Lord said you would. You’re stronger than I thought.”

  The words were heard, but there were other words, whispering silkily in his brain. Arthas listened, and then grinned fiercely.

  “You waste your breath, Mal’Ganis. I heed only the voice of Frostmourne now.”

  The dreadlord threw back his horned head and laughed. “You hear the voice of the Dark Lord,” Mal’Ganis retorted. He pointed a sharp, black-nailed finger at the mighty runeblade. “He whispers to you through the blade you wield!”

  Arthas felt the blood drain from his face. The dreadlord’s master…spoke to him through Frostmourne? But…how could that be? Was this the final trick? Had he been gulled and delivered directly into Mal’Ganis’s taloned hands?

  “What does he say, young human?” The smirk came again, the expression of one who knows something another does not. The dreadlord was gloating, reveling in this twist. “What does the Dark Lord of the Dead tell you now?”

  The whispers came again, but this time it was Arthas who smirked, a mirror image of the same expression the dreadlord bore. Now it was he who knew something Mal’Ganis did not.

  Arthas whirled Frostmourne over his head, the enormous blade light and graceful in his hands, and then he eased into an attack position. “He tells me that the time for my vengeance has come.”

  The green, glowing eyes widened. “What? He can’t possibly mean to—”

  Arthas charged.

  The mighty runeblade lifted, descended. The dreadlord was taken by surprise, but only for an instant, and managed to get his staff up in time to deflect the blow. He leaped aside, great bat wings creating a quick gust of wind that blew Arthas’s golden hair about wildly but did not affect his balance or speed. He came in again and again, coldly in control but swift and deadly as a viper, the blade glowing with eagerness. A brief thought crossed his mind: Frostmourne hungers.

  And a part of him responded with a frisson of fear: Hungers for what?

  It did not matter. He, Arthas, hungered for revenge, and he was going to have it. Every time Mal’Ganis tried to cast a spell, Frostmourne was there, knocking him aside, slicing his flesh, harrying him until the moment came when the deathblow would be dealt. He felt Frostmourne’s anticipation, its craving, and he cried out as he swung the runeblade in a shimmering blue arc to neatly carve a deadly furrow across Mal’Ganis’s midsection.

  Dark blood spurted in an arc, pattering on the snow, as the dreadlord fell. There was astonishment on his face; even at the end, he had not believed he could be defeated.

  For a moment Arthas stood, the wind and snow writhing about him, the glow of the runes on Frostmourne’s blade, partially obscured by dark demonic blood, illuminating the glorious scene.

  “It is finished,” he said softly.

  This part of your journey, yes, young prince, Frostmourne whispered—or was it truly the Dark Lord Mal’Ganis had spoken of? He did not know or care. Carefully he bent and wiped the blade clean in the snow. But there is more. So much more. So much power that could be yours. So much knowledge and control.

  Arthas remembered Muradin’s reading of the inscription. His hand went to his heart without his immediately realizing it. The blade was part of him now, and he was part of it.

  The snowstorm was becoming worse. He realized with dawning surprise that he was not at all cold. He straightened, holding Frostmourne, and looked about him. The demon lay stiffening at his feet. The voice—Frostmourne’s, or th
e mysterious Dark Lord’s—was right.

  There was more. So much more.

  And the winter would teach it.

  Arthas Menethil clutched the runeblade, gazed out into the snowstorm, and ran to embrace it all.

  Arthas knew he would remember the bells all his life. They were rung only on occasions of great state import—a royal wedding, the birth of an heir, the funeral of a king, all the things that marked passages in the life of a kingdom. But today, they were being rung in celebration. He, Arthas Menethil, had returned home.

  He had sent word ahead of his triumph. Of discovering who had been behind the plague. Of searching him out. Of slaying him, and of this day, his glorious return to his place of birth. As he strode along the road toward Capital City, on foot, he was greeted with cheers and applause, the grateful outpouring of thanks of a nation saved from disaster by their beloved prince. He accepted this as his due, but his mind was on seeing his father after so long.

  “I would speak with you in private, Father, and tell you of the things I have learned and seen,” he had written into his letter, delivered a few days earlier by a swift courier. “You have, I am certain, spoken with Jaina and Uther. I can imagine what they have said—tried to turn you against me. I assure you I have only done what I believe to be the greatest good for the citizens of Lordaeron. In the end, I have destroyed the one who began this plague upon our people, and I return home victorious, eager to begin a new era for our kingdom.”

  Those who marched behind him were as silent as he, their faces as cowled. The crowd did not seem to require their response to wildly celebrate their return. The mighty drawbridge was lowered and Arthas strode across it. The cheering throngs were here, too, no longer comprised of commoners, but of diplomats, lesser nobility, visiting dignitaries from the elves, dwarves, and gnomes. They stood not just in the courtyard but also above it in viewing boxes. Rose petals, pink and white and red, rained down upon the land’s returning hero.