Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6

by Christie Golden

  The image disappeared. Arthas stared at where it had been for a long moment.

  Dalaran. The greatest concentration of magic, other than Quel’Thalas, in Azeroth.

  Dalaran. Where Jaina Proudmoore had trained. Where Jaina still would probably be. A flicker of pain blinked through him for an instant.

  “Dalaran is defended by the most powerful magi in Azeroth,” he said slowly to Kel’Thuzad. “There is no way to hide our approach. They will be prepared for us.”

  “As Quel’Thalas was?” Kel’Thuzad laughed, a hollow sound. “Think how easily this army crushed them. They will do the same there. Besides, remember—I was a member of the Kirin Tor, and close to Archmage Antonidas. Dalaran was my home, when I was nothing more than mortal flesh. I know its secrets, its protective spells, ways to slip inside they never thought to properly guard. It is sweet, to be able to visit terror upon those who would have seen me abandon my path and my destiny. Do not fear, death knight. We cannot fail. No one, no thing, can stop the Scourge.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Arthas caught movement. He turned and beheld the floating spirit that had once been Sylvanas Windrunner. She had obviously been listening to the entire conversation and seen his reaction to his new orders.

  “This talk of Dalaran moves you,” she said archly.

  “Silence, ghost,” he muttered, despite himself remembering the first time he had entered the gates of Dalaran as escort to Jaina. The innocence of that time was almost impossible for him to conceive of anymore.

  “Someone there you care for, perhaps? Pleasant memories?”

  The damned banshee would not let up. He surrendered to his anger, lifted a hand, and she writhed in pain for a moment before he released her.

  “You will say no more of this,” he warned. “Let us be about our task.”

  Sylvanas was silent. But on her pale, ghostly face was a savage smirk of satisfaction.

  “I can help.” Jaina’s voice was calm, calmer than she actually expected it to sound. She stood with her master, Antonidas, in his familiar, loved, wonderfully disorganized study, gazing at him intently. “I’ve learned so much.”

  The archmage stood gazing out the window, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, as if he were doing nothing more serious than looking down at students at practice.

  “No,” he said quietly. “You have other duties.” He turned to regard her then, and her heart sank at the expression on his face. “Duties I…and Terenas, Light rest his soul…both shirked. Because of his refusal to listen to that strange prophet, he ended up murdered by his son, and his kingdom lies in ruins, inhabited only by the dead.”

  Even now, Jaina cringed at the statement. Arthas…

  It was still so hard to believe. She had loved him so much…loved him still. Her constant prayer, silent and known only to her, was that he was under some sort of influence he could not resist. Because if he had done all this of his own will—

  “I, too, was asked, and I, too, had the arrogance to assume I knew best. And so, my dear, here we are. We all must live—or die—with our decisions.” Antonidas smiled sadly. Her eyes stung with tears she blinked back and refused to shed.

  “Let me stay. I can—”

  “Keep safe those you have promised to take care of, Jaina Proudmoore,” Antonidas said, a hint of sternness creeping into his voice and mien. “One more or one less here…will make no difference. Others look to you now.”

  “Antonidas…” Her voice broke on the word. She rushed toward him, flinging her arms around him. She had never dared embrace him before; he had always intimidated her far too much. But now, he looked…old. Old, and frail, and worst of all, resigned.

  “Child,” he said affectionately, patting her back, then chuckled. “No, you are a child no longer. You are a woman and a leader. Still…you had best go.”

  From outside a voice rang out, strong and clear and familiar. Jaina felt as though she had been struck. She gasped in sickened recognition, pulling back from her mentor’s embrace.

  “Wizards of the Kirin Tor! I am Arthas, first of the Lich King’s death knights! I demand that you open your gates and surrender to the might of the Scourge!”

  Death knight? Jaina turned her shocked gaze to Antonidas, who gave her a sad smile. “I would have spared you the knowing…at least for now.”

  She reeled with the knowledge. Arthas…here…

  The archmage strode to the balcony. A slight flutter of age-gnarled hands, and his own voice was as magnified as Arthas’s had been.

  “Greetings, Prince Arthas,” Antonidas called down. “How fares your noble father?”

  “Lord Antonidas,” Arthas replied. Where was he? Right outside? Would she see him if she stepped beside Antonidas on the balcony? “There’s no need to be snide.” Jaina turned her head away and wiped at her eyes. She struggled to speak, but the words seemed to stick in her throat.

  “We’ve prepared for your coming, Arthas,” Antonidas continued calmly. “My brethren and I have erected auras that will destroy any undead that pass through them.”

  “Your petty magics will not stop me, Antonidas. Perhaps you’ve heard what happened in Quel’Thalas? They thought themselves invulnerable as well.”

  Quel’Thalas.

  Jaina thought she might be sick. She had been here in Dalaran when word had come, from a handful of survivors who had managed to escape, about what had happened to Quel’Thalas. So too had been the quel’dorei prince. She had never seen Kael’thas so—so angry, so shattered, so raw. She had gone to him, words of compassion and comfort on her lips, but he whirled and gazed at her with such a look of fury that she instinctively drew back.

  “Say nothing,” Kael had snarled. His fists clenched; she could see, to her shock, that he was barely restraining himself from physically harming her. “Foolish girl. This is the monster you would take to your bed?”

  Jaina blinked, stunned at the crudeness of the words coming from one so cultured. “I—”

  But he was not interested in hearing anything she had to say. “Arthas is a butcher! He has slaughtered thousands of innocent people! There is so much blood on his hands that a whole ocean could never wash them clean. And you loved him? Chose him over me?”

  His voice, normally so mellifluous and controlled, cracked on the last word. Jaina felt quick tears come to her eyes as she suddenly understood. He was attacking her because he could not attack his real enemy. He felt helpless, impotent, and was striking out at the nearest target—at her, Jaina Proudmoore, whose love he had wanted and failed to win.

  “Oh…Kael’thas,” she said softly, “he has done…terrible things,” she began. “What your people have suffered—”

  “You know nothing of suffering!” he cried. “You are a child, with a child’s mind and a child’s heart. A heart that you would give to that—that—he slaughtered them, Jaina. And then he raised their corpses!”

  Jaina stared at him mutely, his words having no sting now that she knew the reason for them. “He murdered my father, Jaina, just as he murdered his own. I—I should have been there.”

  “To die with him? With the rest of your people? What good would throwing your life away do for—”

  No sooner had the words left her lips than she realized that it was the wrong thing to say. Kael’thas tensed and cut her off sharply.

  “I could have stopped him. I should have.” He straightened, and coldness suddenly chased away the fire in him. He bowed low, exaggeratedly. “I will be departing Dalaran as soon as possible. There is nothing for me here.” Jaina winced at the emptiness, the resignation in his voice. “I was a fool of the greatest order to ever think any of you humans could aid me. I will leave this place of doddering old magi and ambitious young ones. None of you can help. My people need me to lead now that my father—”

  He fell silent and swallowed hard. “I must go to them. To what pathetically few remain. To those who have endured, rebirthed by the blood of those who now serve your beloved.”

 
He had stalked off then, fury etched in every line of his tall, elegant body, and Jaina had felt her own heart ache with his pain.

  And now, he was here; Arthas was here, at the head of the army of the undead, a death knight himself. Antonidas’s voice startled her out of her reverie and she blinked, trying to return to the present moment.

  “Pull your troops back, or we will be forced to unleash our full powers against you! Make your choice, death knight.” Antonidas stepped back from the balcony and turned to regard Jaina. “Jaina,” he said in his normal voice, “we will be erecting teleportation-blocking barriers momentarily. You must go before you are trapped here.”

  “Maybe I can reason with him…maybe I can…” She fell silent, hearing the unrealistic wanting in her own voice. She hadn’t even been able to stop him from murdering innocents in Stratholme, or going to Northrend when she was certain it was a trap. He’d not listened to her then. If Arthas was indeed under some dark influence, how could she dissuade him now?

  She took a deep breath and stepped back, and Antonidas nodded softly. There was so much she wanted to say to this man, her mentor, her guide. But all she could do was give him a shaky smile, now, as he fought what they both knew would likely be his last battle. She found she couldn’t even say good-bye to him.

  “I’ll take care of our people,” she said thickly, cast the teleportation spell, and disappeared.

  The first part of the battle was over, and Arthas had gotten what he had come for. Arthas had obtained the requested spellbook of Medivh. It was large and curiously heavy for its size, bound in red leather with gold binding. Across its front was an exquisitely tooled black raven, its wings outspread. The book still had Antonidas’s blood on it. He wondered if that would make it more potent.

  Invincible shifted beneath him, stamping a hoof and shaking his neck as if he still had flesh that could be irritated by flies. They were on a hilltop overlooking Dalaran, whose towers still caught the light and gleamed in hues of gold and white and purple while its streets ran with blood. Many of the magi who had fought him hours before stood beside him now. Most of them were too badly damaged to be of use other than as fodder to throw at attackers, but some…some could still be used, the skills they had in life harnessed to serve the Lich King in death.

  Kel’Thuzad was like a child on Winter Veil morning. He was perusing the pages of Medivh’s spellbook, thoroughly engrossed with this new toy. It irritated Arthas.

  “The circle of power has been prepared per your instructions, lich. Are you ready to begin the summoning?”

  “Nearly,” the undead thing replied. Skeletal fingers turned a page of the book. “There is much to absorb. Medivh’s knowledge of demons alone is staggering. I suspect that he was far more powerful than anyone ever realized.”

  A blackish-green swirl had begun manifesting as Kel’Thuzad spoke, and Tichondrius appeared as he finished. Arthas’s irritation deepened as the dreadlord spoke with his usual arrogance. “Not powerful enough to escape death, that is for certain. Suffice to say, the work he began, we will finish…today. Let the summoning commence!”

  And that quickly, he was gone. Kel’Thuzad floated into the circle. The space was marked out by four small obelisks. In their center, a glowing circle with arcane markings had been etched. Kel’Thuzad bore the book with him, and once he fluttered into position, the lines of the circle flared to glowing purple life. At the same moment, there was a spitting, crackling sound and eight pillars of flame sprang up about him. Kel’Thuzad turned to gaze back at Arthas with glowing eyes.

  “Those who yet live within Dalaran will be able to sense the power of this spell,” Kel’Thuzad warned. “I must not be interrupted or we will fail.”

  “I’ll keep your bones safe, lich,” Arthas assured him.

  As Kel’Thuzad had promised, it had been comparatively easy to enter Dalaran, slay those who had erected specific spells against them, and take what they had come for. Arthas had even been able to kill Archmage Antonidas, the man he had once thought so very powerful.

  If Jaina had been there, he felt certain that she would have confronted him. Appealed to what they had once had, as she had done before. She would have had no better luck now than she had then, except—

  He was glad he did not have to fight her.

  Arthas’s attention suddenly snapped back to the present. The gates were opening, and Arthas’s gray lips curved in a grin. Previously, the Scourge had had the element of surprise on their side. Yes, many powerful magi lived in Dalaran at all times. But there was no trained militia, nor were all the magi of the Kirin Tor in Dalaran. But they had had several hours, and they had not been idle.

  They had teleported in an army.

  Good. A solid fight was just what he needed to drive distracting thoughts of Jaina Proudmoore and the youth he had once been to the back of his mind.

  He lifted Frostmourne, feeling it tingle in his hand, hearing the soft voice of the Lich King caress his thoughts.

  “Frostmourne hungers,” he told his troops, pointing the sword at the armor-clad defenders of the great mage city. “Let us sate its appetite.”

  The Scourge army roared, Sylvanas’s anguished wail rising above the cacophony, causing Arthas to grin even more. Even in death, even though she obeyed his commands, she defied him, and he relished forcing her to attack those she would have preferred to defend. Invincible gathered himself beneath his rider and surged forward at a full gallop, whinnying.

  Some of his ghastly troops stayed behind to defend Kel’Thuzad, but most of them accompanied their leader. Arthas recognized the livery of many of those whom the Kirin Tor had teleported in to defend the city. Friends they had once been, but that was all in the past, as irrelevant to him as yesterday’s weather. It was getting easier now, to feel nothing but satisfaction as Frostmourne, glowing and all but singing as it feasted upon souls, rose and fell, cutting through plate as easily as flesh.

  After the first wave of soldiers fell, raised to serve in the Scourge or abandoned where they had fallen as of no use, a second one came. This one had magi with them, clad in the purple robes of Dalaran with an embroidered symbol of the great Eye upon them. But Arthas, too, had additional aid.

  The demons, it would seem, wished to protect their own.

  Giant stones screamed down from the sky, their tails streaks of fel green fire. The earth shook where they struck, and from the craters caused by their impact climbed what looked like stone golems, held together and directed by the sickly green energy.

  Arthas glanced over his shoulder. Kel’Thuzad hovered, his arms spread, his horned head thrown back. Energy crackled and coursed from him, and a green orb began to form. Then, abruptly, the lich lowered his arms and stepped out of the circle.

  “Come forth, Lord Archimonde!” Kel’Thuzad cried. “Enter this world and let us bask in your power!”

  The green orb pulsed, expanding, growing taller and glowing yet more brightly. Suddenly a pillar of fire shot skyward, and several answering lightning bolts crackled down outside the circle. And then, where there had been nothing, a figure stood—tall, powerful, graceful in its own dark and dangerous way. Arthas returned his attention to the battlefield. A retreat sounded—clearly the magi, at least, had seen what was transpiring, and their troops wheeled their mounts and galloped back toward the safety—temporary though Arthas suspected it to be—of Dalaran. Even as they fled, a deep, resonant voice cut through the sound of battle.

  “Tremble, mortals, and despair! Doom has come to this world!”

  Arthas held up his hand, and with that simplest of gestures the swarm of Scourge halted and retreated as well. As he galloped back to Kel’Thuzad, eyeing the giant demon lord all the while, Tichondrius teleported in. As usual, after all the danger had passed.

  The dreadlord made a deep obeisance. Arthas drew rein some distance away, preferring to observe.

  “Lord Archimonde, all the preparations have been made.”

  “Very well, Tichondrius,” replied Archimo
nde, giving the lesser demon a dismissive nod. “Since the Lich King is of no further use to me, you dreadlords will now command the Scourge.”

  Arthas was suddenly very grateful for all those hours spent in disciplined meditation. It was only that that kept his shock and fury from showing. Even so, Invincible felt the change in him and pranced nervously. He yanked on the reins and the undead beast stilled. The Lich King was of no further use? Why? Who exactly was he, and what had happened to him? What would happen to Arthas?

  “Soon, I will order the invasion to begin. But first, I will make an example of these paltry wizards…by crushing their city into the ashes of history.”

  He strode off, his body erect and proud and commanding, his hooves landing firmly with each step, his armor gleaming in the rose and gold and lavender of the encroaching twilight. Beside him, still making obeisance, strode Tichondrius. Arthas waited until they were some distance away before he finally whirled on Kel’Thuzad and burst out, “This has got to be a joke! What happens to us now?”

  “Be patient, young death knight. The Lich King foresaw this as well. You may yet have a part to play in his grand design.”

  May? Arthas whirled on the necromancer, his nostrils flaring, but he tamped back his anger. If anyone—either of the demons or the Lich King himself—thought for one moment that Arthas was a tool to simply be used and then discarded, he would soon show them the error of their thinking. He had done too much—lost too much, cut out too much of himself for this to be cast aside.

  It couldn’t all be for nothing.

  It would not all be for nothing.

  The earth rumbled. Invincible shifted uneasily, lifting his hooves as if to minimize contact with the earth. Arthas glanced up quickly at the mage city. The towers were lovely at this time of day, proud and glorious and glittering in the deepening twilight hues. But as he watched, he heard a deep cracking noise. The apex of the tallest, most beautiful tower in the city suddenly fell, slowly and inexorably, tumbling downward as if the length of the tower had been clenched by a giant, unseen hand.