The hate grew inside Sylvanas like a living thing in her incorporeal body. She floated beside him, his shiny new toy, her body gathered up and flung on one of the meat wagons to who knew what sick end Arthas could devise. As if there was a thread that bound her to him, she never was more than a few feet away from the death knight.
And she was beginning to hear the whispers.
At first, Sylvanas wondered if she was insane in this new, abhorrent incarnation. But it soon became apparent that even the refuge of the mad was denied her. The voice in her mind was unintelligible at first, and in her wretched state she did not wish to hear. But soon she understood to whom it belonged.
Arthas kept giving her sidelong glances as he continued his inexorable march to Silvermoon and beyond, watching her closely. At one point, as this army of which she was a captive part surged forward, destroying the land as it passed, she heard it very clearly.
For my glory, you will serve, Sylvanas. For the dead, you will toil. For obedience, you will hunger. Arthas is the first and most beloved of my death knights; he will command you forever, and you will find it joyous.
Arthas saw her shiver, and he smiled.
If she had thought she despised him when she first beheld him outside the gates of Quel’Thalas, when the wondrous land within was still clean and pure and had not known the killing touch; if she had thought she hated him as his minions slew her people and raised them to become lifeless puppets, and when he impaled her in a single, savage blow with the monstrous runeblade—it was as nothing to what she felt now. A candle to a sun, a whisper to a banshee’s scream.
Never, she told the voice in her head. He directs my actions, but Arthas cannot break my will.
The only answer was hollow, cold laughter.
On they pushed, past Fairbreeze Village and the East Sanctum. At the gates of Silvermoon itself they halted. Arthas’s voice should not have carried as it did, but Sylvanas knew that it was heard in every corner of the city as he stood in front of the gates.
“Citizens of Silvermoon! I have given you ample opportunities to surrender, but you have stubbornly refused. Know that today, your entire race and your ancient heritage will end! Death itself has come to claim the high home of the elves!”
She, Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner, was paraded in front of her people as an example of what would happen to them if they did not surrender. They did not, and she loved them fiercely for it even as she was pressed into service by her dark master.
And so it fell, the shining, beautiful city of magic, its glories shattered and reduced to rubble as the army of undead—the Scourge, she heard Arthas call them, twisted affection in his voice—pressed on. As he had before, Arthas raised the fallen to serve, and if Sylvanas had still possessed a heart, it would have broken at the sight of so many friends and loved ones shambling beside her, mindlessly obedient. On through the city they marched, cleaving it in twain with the vile purple-black scar, its citizens lurching to their feet with wounds that had smashed skulls, or trailing viscera behind them as they shambled forward.
She had hoped the channel between Silvermoon and Quel’Danas would prove an impassable barrier, and for a moment that hope seemed realized. Arthas drew rein, staring at the blue water glinting in the sun, and frowned. For a moment he sat atop his unnatural steed, his white brows knitted together. “You cannot fill this channel with corpses, Arthas,” Sylvanas had gloated. “Not even the whole city would be enough. You are stopped here, and your failure is sweet.” And then the being who had once been human, who had once by all accounts been a good man, turned and grinned at her blistering words of defiance, sending her into a paroxysm of agony and wrenching another soul-splitting scream from her incorporeal lips.
He had found a solution.
He cast Frostmourne toward the shore, watching it almost rapturously as it flipped end over end to land with its tip impaled in the sand.
“Frostmourne speaks….”
Sylvanas heard it, too, the voice of the Lich King emanating from the unholy weapon as before her shocked gaze the water lapping at its rune-inscribed blade began to turn to ice. Ice that his weapons, and his warriors, could cross.
He took her life, he took her beloved Quel’Thalas and Silvermoon, then he took her king before the final violation.
They had resisted, on Quel’Danas, resisted with all they had in them. When Anasterian appeared before Arthas, his fiery magics wreaked havoc on the death knight’s icy bridge, but Arthas recovered. He frowned, his eyes flashing, drew Frostmourne, and bore down upon the elven king.
Even as she hoped desperately that Anasterian would defeat Arthas, Sylvanas knew he would not. Three millennia rested upon those shoulders; the white hue of hair that fell almost to his feet was due to age, not dark magics. He had been a powerful fighter once, and was still a powerful mage, but to her new, spectral sight, there was a frailty about him she had not seen when she breathed. Still, he stood, his ancient weapon, Felo’melorn, “Flamestrike,” in one hand, a staff with a powerful, glittering crystal in the other.
Arthas struck, but Anasterian was no longer standing in front of the charging steed. Somehow, faster than Sylvanas could see, he was kneeling, swinging Felo’melorn in a clean horizontal strike across the horse’s forelegs, severing both of them. The horse shrieked and fell, its rider with it.
“Invincible!” Arthas cried, seeming stricken as the undead horse rolled and tried to get to its feet while missing its two forelegs. It seemed an odd battle cry to Sylvanas, considering Anasterian had just gained an advantage. But the face Arthas turned toward the elven king was full of naked rage and pain. He looked almost human now; a human male seeing something he loved in torment. He scrambled to his feet, glancing back distractedly at the horse, and for a wild moment Sylvanas thought maybe, just maybe—
The ancient elven weapon was no match for the runeblade, as Sylvanas knew it would not, could not be. It snapped as the blades clashed, the severed piece whirling away crazily as Anasterian fell, his soul ripped from him and consumed by the glowing Frostmourne, as had been so many others.
He sprawled on the ice, limp, blood pooling beneath him, white hair spread out like a shroud, while Arthas rushed to the undead horse and mended its severed legs, patting the bones while it pranced and nuzzled at him. And Sylvanas, although she knew it would harm those she still loved, could not carry the weight of the pain and anguish and sheer burning hatred of Arthas and all he had done. Her head fell back, her arms spreading as her mouth opened, and a cry, beautiful and terrible at once, was torn from an insubstantial throat.
She had cried out before, as he had tortured her. But that was only her own pain, her own despair. This was so much more. Torment, agony, yes, but more than that, a hatred so profound as to be almost pure. She heard other cries of pain mingling with hers, saw elves dropping to their knees clutching ears that began to bleed. Their voices and their spells were stopped, changed from words of magic to incoherent cries of raw grief and startled pain. Some of them fell, their armor shattering and breaking off of them in jagged shards; their very bones breaking beneath their flesh.
Even Arthas stared at her for a moment, his white brows drawn together in an appraising gesture. She wanted to stop. She wanted to silence herself, muffle this cry of destruction that only served he whom she hated so passionately. At last it wore down beneath her pain, and Sylvanas, banshee, fell sickly silent.
“What a fine weapon you are indeed,” Arthas murmured. “And mayhap you will be a double-edged sword. I will be watching you.”
The horrible army pressed on. Arthas reached the plateau. He reached it, and slew those who guarded the Sunwell, and forced her to participate in the slaughter. And then he visited the ultimate horror upon her people, marching up to the glorious pool of radiance that had sustained the quel’dorei for millennia. Beside it, waiting for him, stood a figure Sylvanas recognized—Dar’Khan Drathir.
So it had been he who had betrayed Quel’Thalas. He who, even more than
Arthas, had the blood of thousands upon his well-manicured hands. Fury raged through her. She watched the glow she knew to be golden play upon Arthas’s features, softening them and lending them an artificial warmth. Then he upended the contents of an exquisitely crafted urn into the waters, and the radiance changed. It began to pulse and swirl, and inside the swirling center of the damaged magical glow—
—a shadow—
Even after all she had witnessed this dark day, even after what she had become, Sylvanas was stunned at what emerged from the befouled Sunwell, rising and lifting its arms to the skies. A skeleton, horned and grinning, its eye sockets burning with fire. Chains snaked around it and purple vestments fluttered with its movements.
“I am reborn, as promised! The Lich King has granted me eternal life!”
It had all been for this? To raise this single entity? All the slaughter, the torment, the terror; the unspeakably precious and vital Sunwell corrupted, a way of life that had lasted for thousands of years shattered—for this?
She stared sickly at the cackling lich, and the only thing that gave her even a hint of surcease from the agony was watching Dar’Khan, who had attempted to betray his master as he had betrayed his people, dying, as she had done, from Frostmourne’s keen edge.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The cold wind tousled Arthas’s white hair, caressed his face, and he smiled. It was good, to be again in the colder part of this world. The elven land, with its eternal early summer, heavy with the scents of blossoms and growth, had made him uneasy. It reminded him too much of the gardens of Dalaran, where he had spent so much time with Jaina; of the snapdragons of the Balnir farm. Better the wind, to scour him clean, and the coldness, to quell those memories. They no longer served him, but weakened him, and there was no room for weakness in the heart of Arthas Menethil.
He was, as ever, atop his loyal horse, Invincible. He had had a bad moment in Quel’Thalas, when that bastard king Anasterian had cowardly attacked an innocent steed rather than its rider, severing its legs in the same way that in life had caused Invincible’s death. The incident had catapulted Arthas back in time to those horrible moments, shaking him to the core and in the case of the battle with Anasterian, unleashing an icy rage that in the end had served him well. Before and behind him, his army marched through the snowy pass, untiring, unaffected by the cold. Somewhere in among their ghastly number floated a banshee. Arthas would let Sylvanas be, for the moment. He was more interested in Kel’Thuzad, who glided beside him almost serenely, if such a word could ever be applied to a lich. He was the one who had directed the Scourge to this remote, frozen place, and Arthas had until now not questioned. But the trek was getting boring, and he was curious. The prince felt a smile curve his lips.
“So,” he quipped, “you’re not upset about me killing you that one time?”
“Don’t be foolish,” the undead necromancer replied. “The Lich King told me how our encounter would end.”
That surprised Arthas. “The Lich King knew that I would kill you?” He frowned, glancing down at the blade that stretched across his lap. It was silent now, dormant. No whispers came from it, nor did the runes pulse with power.
“Of course,” Kel’Thuzad responded, a hint of superiority in his sepulchral voice. “He chose you to be his champion long before the Scourge even began.”
Arthas’s unease deepened. No one had asked him, or even told him about his destiny. But would he have embraced it, had he known? No, he decided. He did not like being manipulated, but he knew that he had had to be tempered if he was to be a formidable weapon. He had to go step by step to his fate, otherwise he would have rejected it. He would then still be with Jaina and Uther and his father would—
“If he’s so all knowing, then how can the dreadlords control him like they do?”
“They are agents of the one who created our master: the fiery lords of the Burning Legion.”
The words sent a shiver through Arthas. Burning Legion. Two words only, but the power they promised was heady, somehow. In his lap, Frostmourne flickered.
“It is a vast demonic army that has consumed countless worlds beyond our own.” Kel’Thuzad’s voice was almost hypnotic, and Arthas shut his eyes for a moment. Behind the closed lids, scenes played out in his mind as the lich spoke. He saw a red sky arcing over a red world. Over a ridge poured a wave of creatures. They ran like hounds, but no natural beasts were they—they had fearsome jaws crammed with teeth, and strange tentacles sprouting from their shoulders. Stones crashed to the earth, leaving trails of green fire, to come to life as animated rock that marched on their foes.
“Now, it comes to set this world to the flame. Our master was created to pave the way for its arrival. The dreadlords were sent to make sure he succeeded.”
The scene in Arthas’s mind shifted. He was looking at an ornate carved gateway. He knew it to be the Dark Portal, although he had never seen it with his own eyes. It radiated green fire, and a host of demons were clustered around it. Arthas shook his head and the vision evaporated.
“So the plague in Lordaeron, the citadels in Northrend, the slaughtering of the elves…it was all just to prepare for some huge demonic invasion?”
“Yes. In time, you will find that our entire history has been shaped by the coming conflict.”
Arthas pondered this. Frostmourne was definitely awakening, and he removed the gauntlet from his right hand to caress it. Cold, bone cold it was, so cold that even his death knight’s hand, which had been tempered for such a task, ached as he touched it. He felt the whispers again, and smiled.
“There is more, lich, is there not?” he asked, turning to regard Kel’Thuzad. “You have said that the dreadlords imprison our master. Tell me now.”
Not possessing flesh any longer, Kel’Thuzad had no facial expressions with which to betray his emotions. But Arthas knew by the slight hunching of the undead’s form that he was uncomfortable. Nonetheless, he spoke.
“The first phase of the Lich King’s plan was to engineer the Scourge, which would eradicate any group that might resist the Legion’s arrival.”
Arthas nodded. “Like the forces of Lordaeron…and the high elves.” He felt a vague knot in the pit of his stomach, but dismissed it.
“Exactly. The second phase is to actually summon the demon lord who will spark the invasion.” The lich lifted a bony finger and pointed in the direction in which they traveled. “There is a nearby encampment of orcs who maintain a functional demon gate. I must use the gate to commune with the demon lord and receive his instructions.”
Arthas sat quietly atop Invincible for a moment. His mind went back to when he had fought orcs alongside Uther the Lightbringer at Strahnbrad. He recalled the orcs had performed human sacrifices to their demon lords. He and Uther had both been disgusted and appalled. Arthas himself had been so infuriated that Uther had had to lecture him on not fighting with rage in his heart. “If we allow our passions to turn to bloodlust, then we will become as vile as the orcs,” Uther had chided.
Well, Uther was dead, and while Arthas was still killing orcs, he was now working with demons. A muscle twitched near his eye.
“What are we waiting for?” he snapped, and urged Invincible into a gallop.
The orcs fought bravely, but in the end, it was futile, as all attempts to halt the Scourge would be futile. Arthas galloped forward, Invincible leaping nimbly over fallen orc bodies. He regarded the gate for a long moment. Three stone slabs, strangely elegant for so brutal a race. Erected nearby, though, were huge animal bones that glowed a dull red hue. In the confines outlined by the slabs of stone, green energy swirled sluggishly. A passage to another world. Jaina would be intrigued—but too horrified to pursue her curiosity. That was what made her weak.
It…was what made her Jaina….
“The brutes have been slain,” Arthas spat. “The demon gate is yours, lich.”
The skeletal form shivered with delight, floating forward and lifting his arms imploringly. Steps led up to the arc
hway; Arthas noticed that the lich did not ascend any of them. He stood at the bottom, out of respect—or out of a more pragmatic desire to avoid harm. Arthas hung back, watching intently from atop Invincible.
“I call upon thee, Archimonde! Your humble servant seeks an audience!”
The green mist continued to swirl. Then, Arthas realized he could make out a shape—features—that were both like and unlike the dreadlords he was more familiar with.
The being had what Arthas guessed to be blue-gray skin, though with the green light tingeing him, it was difficult to be certain. There was no question, however, that the demon’s body was powerful, with a mighty barrel chest, large, strong arms, and a lower body that seemed to be shaped like that of a goat—Archimonde’s legs curved back, ending in a pair of cloven hooves instead of feet. A tail twitched, perhaps belying Archimonde’s calm, in-control demeanor. Arms, shoulders, and legs were encased in golden, gleaming armor adorned with shapes of skulls and spikes. Twin tentacles, long and thin, dangled from his chin. But the most arresting feature of his elongated face were his eyes, which glowed a sickly green color that was brighter and more compelling than the green mist that whirled about him. Even though Archimonde was not yet here, not yet physically in this world, Arthas was not unmoved by the demon’s presence.
“You called my name, puny lich, and I have come,” said the demon, his voice resonant and seeming to vibrate along Arthas’s very bones. “You are Kel’Thuzad, are you not?”
Kel’Thuzad bowed his horned head. He was all but groveling, Arthas noted. “Yes, great one. I am the summoner. I beg of you, tell me how I may expedite your passage into this world. I exist only to serve.”
“There is a special tome you must find,” the demon lord intoned. His gaze flickered to Arthas, examined him for a moment, then dismissed him. Arthas found himself growing annoyed. “The only remaining spellbook of Medivh, the Last Guardian. Only his lost incantations are powerful enough to bring me into your world. Seek out the mortal city of Dalaran. It is there that the tome is kept. At twilight, three days from now, you will begin the summoning.”
Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6 Page 23
