Arthas remembered that once, he had thought to see Jaina standing before him on their wedding day, the petals falling upon a face lit with a smile, turned up to kiss him.
Jaina…
Moved by the image, he caught one of the red petals in a gloved hand. He thumbed it thoughtfully, and then frowned as a stain appeared. It grew before his eyes, desiccating and destroying the petal, until it was more brown than red in his palm. With a quick, dismissive gesture, he tossed the dead thing away and continued.
He pushed open the huge doors to the throne room he knew so well, strode forward, glanced at Terenas briefly, and threw his father a smile that was mostly hidden by the cowl. Arthas knelt in obeisance, Frostmourne held before him, its tip touching the seal carved into the stone floor.
“Ah, my son. Glad I am to see you safely home,” Terenas said, rising somewhat unsteadily.
Terenas looked unwell, Arthas thought. The incidents of the last several months had aged the monarch. His hair was grayer now, his eyes tired.
But it was all going to be all right now.
You no longer need to sacrifice for your people. You no longer need to bear the weight of your crown. I’ve taken care of everything.
Arthas rose, his armor clattering with the movement. He lifted a hand and drew back the hood from his face, watching for his father’s reaction. Terenas’s eyes widened as he took in the change that had come over his only son.
Arthas’s hair, once golden as the wheat that had given sustenance to his people, was now bone-white. He knew his face was pale as well, as if the blood had been drained from it.
It is time, Frostmourne whispered in his mind. Arthas moved toward his father, who had halted on the dais, staring, uncertain. There were several guards positioned about the room, but they would be no match against him, Frostmourne, and the two who had accompanied him. Arthas strode boldly up the carpeted steps and seized his father by the arm.
Arthas drew back his blade. Frostmourne’s runes brightened in anticipation. And then a whisper, not from the runeblade, but a memory—
—the voice of a dark-haired prince, seemingly from another lifetime ago—
“He was assassinated. A trusted friend…she killed him. Stabbed him right in the heart…”
Arthas shook his head and the voice was silenced.
“What is this? What are you doing, my son?”
“Succeeding you…Father.”
And Frostmourne’s hunger was sated—for the moment.
Arthas turned them loose then—his new, unquestioning, obedient subjects. Dispatching the guards who charged him upon the death of his father was a simple matter, and he stormed with cold purpose back out into the courtyard.
It was madness.
What had once been revelry had now become frenzy. What had once been celebration had now become a frantic flight for life. Few escaped. Most of those who had waited for hours in line to welcome their prince back now lay dead, blood congealing from hideous wounds, limbs ripped off, bodies broken. Ambassadors now lay with commoners, men and women with children, all hideously equal in death.
Arthas did not care what their eventual fate was—carrion for the crows, or new subjects to follow his rule. He would leave that to his captains, Falric and Marwyn, as bone-white as he and twice as merciless. Arthas marched through the way he had come, focused and intent upon one single thing.
Once clear of the courtyard and the corpses, animated or still, he broke into a run. No horse would bear him now; the beasts grew frantic at the smell of him and those who followed him. But he had found that he did not tire; not when Frostmourne, or the Lich King who spoke to him through the runeblade, was whispering to him. And so he ran swiftly, his legs carrying him to a place he had not been in years.
Voices swirled in his head, memories, snippets of conversations:
“You know you were not supposed to ride him yet.”
“You missed your lessons. Again…”
Invincible’s horrible screams of agony, echoing in his mind. The Light, pausing for that awful moment, as if deciding whether or not he was worthy of its grace. Jaina’s face as he ended their relationship.
“Listen to me, boy…. The shadow has already fallen, and nothing you do will deter it…. The harder you strive to slay your enemies, the faster you’ll deliver your people into their hands….”
“…This isn’t a blighted apple crop; this is a city full of human beings!…”
“…We know so little—we can’t just slaughter them like animals out of our own fear!”
“Ye lied tae yer men and betrayed the mercenaries who fought for ye!…That’s nae King Terenas’s boy.”
But they were the ones who could not see, could not grasp. Jaina—Uther—Terenas—Muradin. All of them, at some point, by word or look, had told him he had been wrong.
He slowed his pace as he came to the farmstead. His subjects had been here before him, and now there were only corpses lying, stiffening in the earth. Arthas steeled himself against the pain that recognition brought with it even now; they had been the lucky ones, to simply die. A man, a woman, a youth his own age.
And the snapdragons…blooming like mad this year, it would seem. Arthas stepped close and extended a hand to touch one of the beautiful, tall, lavender-blue flowers, then hesitated, remembering the rose petal.
He had not come here for flowers.
He turned and strode to a grave, nearly seven years old now. Grass had overtaken it, but the marker was still readable. He did not need to read it to know what lay here.
For a moment he stood, more moved by the death of the one in this grave than by that of his own father, by his own hand.
The power is yours, came the whispers. Do as you will.
Arthas extended one hand, Frostmourne firmly gripped in the other. Dark light began to swirl around the outstretched hand, increasing in speed. It moved from his fingers like a serpent, undulating and writhing of its own accord, and then it speared down into the earth.
Arthas felt it connect with the skeleton below. Joy flooded him, and tears stung his eyes. He lifted his hand, pulling the no-longer-dead thing from its seven-year slumber in the cool dark earth.
“Arise!” he commanded, the word bursting from his throat.
The grave erupted, showering bits of earth. Bony legs pawed, hooves seeking purchase on the shifting soil, and a skull thrust upward, breaking the surface. Arthas watched breathlessly, a smile on his too-pale face.
I saw you being born, he thought, remembering a membrane enshrouding a wriggling, wet, new little life. I helped you come into this world, and I helped you leave it…and now by my hand, you are reborn.
The skeletal steed struggled through the earth and finally emerged, planting its forelegs firmly and hoisting itself up. Red fire burned in its empty eye sockets. It tossed its head, pranced and somehow whinnied, though its soft tissue had long since rotted away.
Trembling, Arthas extended a hand to the undead creature, who whickered and nuzzled his hand with its bony muzzle. Seven years ago, he had ridden this horse to its death. Seven years ago, he had wept tears that had frozen on his face as he lifted his sword and stabbed the beloved beast straight through its gallant heart.
He had carried the guilt of that act alone all this time. But now he realized—it was all part of his destiny. If he had not slain his steed, he could not now bring it back. Alive, the horse would have feared him. Undead as it was, with fire for eyes, its bones held together by the necromantic magic that Arthas now could wield thanks to the gift of the mysterious Lich King, horse and rider could at last be reunited, as they had always been meant to be. It hadn’t been a mistake, seven years ago; he hadn’t been wrong. Not then, not now.
Not ever.
And this was proof.
Throughout the land that he now ruled, his father’s blood still slick and crimson on Frostmourne, death was coming. The change.
“This kingdom shall fall,” he promised his beloved steed as he threw his c
loak over its bony back and mounted. “And from the ashes shall arise a new order that will shake the very foundation of the world!”
The horse whickered.
Invincible.
PART THREE:
THE DARK LADY
INTERLUDE
Sylvanas Windrunner, former ranger-general of Quel’Thalas, banshee, and Dark Lady of the Forsaken, strode from the royal quarters with the same quick, lithe stride she had had in life. She preferred her corporeal form for ordinary, everyday activities. Her leather boots made no sound on the stone floor of the Undercity, but all heads turned to watch their lady. She was unique and unmistakable.
Once, her hair had been golden, her eyes blue, her skin the color of a fresh peach. Once, she had been alive. Now her hair, often covered by a blue-black cowl, was black as midnight with white streaks and her formerly peach-hued skin a faint, pearly blue-gray. She’d chosen to don the armor she had worn in life, well-tooled leather that revealed most of her slender but muscular torso. Her ears twitched at the murmurings; she did not often venture forth from her chambers. She was ruler of this city, and the world came to her.
Beside her hurried Master Apothecary Faranell, head of the Royal Apothecary Society, who was talking animatedly and simpering. “I am most grateful you agreed to come, my lady,” he said, trying to bow and walk and speak at the same time. “You did say you wished to be informed when the experiments were successful, and you wanted to see them yourself once we—”
“I am well aware of my own orders, Doctor,” Sylvanas snapped as they began to descend a winding corridor into the bowels of the Undercity.
“Of course, of course. Here we are.” They emerged into a room that to one with weaker sensibilities would seem like a house of horrors. On a large table, a stooped undead was busily sewing together pieces of different corpses, humming a little under his breath. Sylvanas smiled slightly.
“It is good to see someone who enjoys his work so,” she replied a trifle archly. The apprentice started slightly, and then bowed deeply.
There was a low buzz of some kind of energy crackling. Other alchemists bustled about, mixing potions, weighing ingredients, jotting notes. The smell was a combination of putrefaction, chemicals, and, incongruously, the clean sweet smell of certain herbs. Sylvanas was startled by her reaction. The scent of the herbs made her oddly…homesick. Fortunately, the softer emotion did not last long. Such emotions never did.
“Show me,” she demanded. Faranell bowed and ushered her through the main area, past pieces of bodies hanging on hooks, into a side room.
The faint sound of sobbing reached her ears. As she entered, Sylvanas saw several cages on the floor or swinging slowly from chains, all of them filled with test subjects. Some were human. Some were Forsaken. All were dull-eyed with fear that had pierced so deep and had gone on so long that they were almost numb.
They would not be so for much longer.
“As you can imagine, my lady,” Faranell was saying, “it is difficult to transport Scourge as test subjects. Of course for experimental purposes, Forsaken are identical to Scourge. But I am delighted to report that our tests in the field have been well documented and quite successful.”
Excitement began to stir in Sylvanas, and she graced the apothecary with a rare and still beautiful smile. “That pleases me greatly,” she said. The undead doctor fairly quivered in delight. He beckoned to his assistant Keever, a Forsaken whose brain had obviously been damaged by his first death and who muttered to himself in the third person as he removed two test subjects. One was a human woman, who was apparently not so lost in fear and despair as not to start weeping silently when Keever dragged her from her cage. The Forsaken male, however, was utterly impassive and stood quietly. Sylvanas eyed him.
“Criminal?”
“Of course, my lady.” She wondered if it were true. But in the end, it didn’t matter. He would serve the Forsaken, even so. The human girl was on her knees. Keever stooped down, yanked her head up by her hair, and when she opened her mouth to cry out in pain, he poured a cup of something down her throat and covered her mouth, forcing her to swallow.
Sylvanas watched while she struggled. Beside her, the Forsaken male accepted the cup that Faranell offered without protest, draining it dry.
It happened quickly. The human girl soon stopped struggling, her body tensing, and then going into paroxysms. Keever let her go, watching almost curiously as blood began to stream from her mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. Sylvanas turned her gaze to the Forsaken. He still regarded her steadily, silently. She began to frown.
“Perhaps this is not as effective as your—”
The Forsaken shuddered. He struggled to stand erect for a moment longer, but his rapidly weakening body betrayed him and he stumbled, falling hard. Everyone stepped back. Sylvanas watched raptly, her lips parted in excitement.
“The same strain?” she asked Faranell. The human female whimpered once and then was still, her eyes open. The alchemist nodded happily.
“Indeed it is,” he said. “As you can imagine, we are quite—”
The undead spasmed, his skin breaking open in spots and weeping black ichor, and then he, too, was still.
“—pleased with the results.”
“Indeed,” Sylvanas said. She was hard put to conceal her own elation; “pleased” was a pale word indeed. “A plague that kills both humans and Scourge. And, obviously, affects my own people as well, as they, too, are undead.”
She gave him a look from glowing silver eyes. “We must take care that this never falls into the wrong hands. The results could be…devastating.”
He gulped. “Indeed, my lady, indeed they could.”
She forced a neutral expression as she returned to the royal quarters. Her mind was racing with a thousand things, but foremost among them, burning as brightly and wildly as the wicker man she lit every Hallow’s End, was a single thought:
At last, Arthas, you will pay for what you have done. The humans who spawned such as you shall be slaughtered. Your Scourge shall be stopped in their tracks. You will no longer be able to hide behind your armies of mindless undead puppets. And we will grace you with the same mercy and compassion you showed us.
Despite her great control, she found herself smiling.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was, Arthas mused as he rode upon the back of the skeletal, faithful Invincible toward Andorhal, a truly great irony that he who had slain the necromancer Kel’Thuzad was now charged with resurrecting him.
Frostmourne whispered to him, although he did not need the voice of the sword—the voice of the Lich King, as he desired to be known—to reassure him. There was no going back. Nor did he wish to.
After the fall of Capital City, Arthas had retreated into a dark version of a paladin’s pilgrimage. He had ridden the length and breadth of his land, bringing his new subjects to town after town and unleashing them upon the populace. He thought the Scourge, which Kel’Thuzad had called them, a fitting name. The instrument of self-flagellation of the same name, sometimes used by some of the more fringe elements of the priesthood, was meant to cleanse impurities. His Scourge would cleanse the land of the living. He stood straddling the worlds; he was alive after a fashion, but the Lich King’s soft whispers were calling him death knight, and the leeching of color from his hair and skin and eyes seemed to indicate that it was more than a title. He did not know; he did not care. He was the Lich King’s favored, and the Scourge was his to command, and in a strange, twisted way, he found that he cared for them.
Arthas now served the Lich King through one of his sergeants, a dreadlord, almost identical in form to Mal’Ganis. This, too, was irony; this, too, did not distress him.
“Like Mal’Ganis, I am a dreadlord. But I am not your enemy,” Tichondrius had reassured him. The lips twisted in a smile that was more of a sneer. “In truth, I’ve come to congratulate you. By killing your own father and delivering this land to the Scourge, you have passed your first test. The Lich King is plea
sed with your…enthusiasm.”
Arthas felt buffeted by twin emotions—pain and exultation.
“Yes,” he said, keeping his voice steady in front of the demon, “I’ve damned everyone and everything I’ve ever loved in his name, and I still feel no remorse. No pity. No shame.”
And in his heart of hearts, there came another whisper, but not from Frostmourne: Liar.
He forced the sentiment down. That voice would be silenced, somehow. He could not afford to permit the softness to grow. It was like gangrene; it would eat him, if he let it.
Tichondrius seemed not to notice. He pointed to Frostmourne. “The runeblade you carry was forged by my kind, long ago. The Lich King has empowered it to steal souls. Yours was the first one it claimed.”
Emotions warred within Arthas. He stared at the blade. Tichondrius’s word choice had not escaped him. Stolen. Had the Lich King asked for his soul in exchange for saving his people, Arthas would have given it. But the Lich King had asked no such thing; he had simply taken it. And now it was there, locked inside the glowing weapon, so close to Arthas that the prince—the king—could almost, but not quite, touch it. And had Arthas even gotten what he had set out to get? Had his people been saved?
Did it matter?
Tichondrius watched him closely. “Then I’ll make do without one,” Arthas said lightly. “What is the Lich King’s will?”
It had been, it turned out, to rally what was left of the Cult of the Damned in order to have aid for a greater undertaking—the recovery of Kel’Thuzad’s remains.
They lay, he had been told, in Andorhal, where Arthas himself had left them, a puddle of reeking, decaying flesh. Andorhal, where the shipments of plagued grain had come from. He recalled his fury as he had attacked the necromancer, but felt it no longer. A smile curved his pale lips. Irony.
The buildings that had once been a conflagration were now charred timbers. No one save the undead should be here now…and yet…Arthas frowned, drawing rein. Invincible halted, as obedient in death as he had been in life. Arthas could glimpse figures moving about. What little light there was on this dim day glinted off—
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