The rest of the city fell quickly, shattering and crumbling, the sound of destruction loud and thrumming in Arthas’s ears. He winced at the volume, but did not tear his eyes away.
He had instigated the fall of Silvermoon. Had directed his Scourge against it. But this—there was casualness about it, an ease…Silvermoon had been a hard-won prize. Archimonde appeared to be able to shatter the greatest of human cities without even being present.
Arthas thought about Archimonde and Tichondrius. He scratched his chin thoughtfully.
In his lap, Frostmourne glowed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Kel’Thuzad, Arthas mused as he waited atop the verdant hill for the one he had been assured would come, was a useful lich to have around.
He was utterly loyal to the Lich King, even to the point of convincingly playing the lapdog to Archimonde and Tichondrius while in their presence, if that was what was required to secretly serve. Arthas had opted for silence; he did not trust himself to lie as convincingly as Kel’Thuzad. The two demons had deemed them nonessential. They would soon see how wrong they were. Carelessly they had left the Book of Medivh in the lich’s bony hands. In that mind, too, were spells and magic so powerful that Arthas knew he would never be able to fully grasp their scope.
“The third part of the plan,” Kel’Thuzad had said once the demons were gone, as idly as if he were conversing about the weather, “was the true heart of the Legion’s plot.”
Arthas remembered what Kel’Thuzad had told him earlier. First had been the creation of the Scourge, then the summoning of Archimonde. He listened now with intense interest as Kel’Thuzad continued. “The Legion is after nothing less than the taking of all magic and the devouring of all life upon this world. And to that end, they plan to consume the concentrated, powerful energies contained within the elves’ Well of Eternity. In order to accomplish this, they must destroy the single thing that contains within it the truest, purest essence of life energy on Azeroth. The Well of Eternity lies across the ocean, on the continent of Kalimdor. And the thing that would thwart the Legion is called Nordrassil…the World Tree. It grants the kaldorei immortality, and they are bound to it.”
“Kaldorei?” Arthas was confused. “I know of quel’dorei. Are they another race of elves?”
“The original race,” Kel’Thuzad corrected. He waved a hand dismissively. “But those details are of no consequence. What matters is that we must stop the Legion from achieving this goal. And there is one among the kaldorei who would aid us.”
And so it was that using his magics, Kel’Thuzad had teleported Arthas to this distant continent and this hill that afforded an expansive view. The forests here were lush, healthy, but Arthas could already see what the Legion had wrought in the distance. Where the land, trees, beasts were not dead, they had been corrupted. Devour all life, indeed.
A figure crested another hill below him, and Arthas smiled to himself. This was the one whose arrival he had been awaiting.
They were certainly different, these “night elves.” This one’s skin was pale lavender, etched with swirling tattoos and scars cut into the skin in ritualistic patterns. A black cloth was tied around his eyes, but he appeared to have no difficulty in navigating the terrain. He carried a weapon that resembled nothing Arthas had ever seen. Instead of a traditional sword, which would be grasped by a hilt with a blade extending from it, this weapon had two jagged blades that glowed the sick green hue of something tainted with demonic energies.
So, this one had trafficked with demons before.
Arthas waited a while, observing. The night elf—Illidan Stormrage, Kel’Thuzad had said his name was—raged to himself. Apparently the list of wrongs piled against him was a lengthy one, and he ached for vengeance and power as much as Kel’Thuzad had said he would.
Arthas smiled.
“I am free after ten thousand years, yet still my own brother thinks I am a villain!” Illidan ranted. “I’ll show him my true power. I’ll show him the demons have no hold over me!”
“Are you certain of that, demon hunter?” Arthas said, his voice carrying. The night elf whirled, brandishing his weapon. “Are you certain your will is your own?”
The elf might have been blind in the traditional sense, but Arthas felt seen regardless. Illidan sniffed and growled. “You reek of death, human. You’ll regret approaching me.”
Arthas grinned. He was itching for a good one-on-one fight. “Come then,” he invited. “You’ll find that we’re evenly matched.” Invincible reared and galloped down the hill, as eager for action as his master was. Illidan growled and ran to meet him.
It was almost like a dance, Arthas mused as the two warriors faced each other. Illidan was strong and graceful, his skills demonically enhanced. But Arthas, too, was no mere soldier, nor was Frostmourne an ordinary blade. The fight was fierce and swift; Arthas had been right. They were indeed evenly matched. After too short a time, both combatants fell back, breathing heavily.
“We could go on fighting like this forever,” Illidan said. “What is it you truly want?”
Arthas lowered Frostmourne. “From your muttering earlier, I hear that you and your allies are beset by the undead. The dreadlord who commands this undead army is called Tichondrius. He controls a powerful warlock artifact called the Skull of Gul’dan. It is responsible for corrupting these forests.”
Illidan cocked his head. “And you wish for me to steal it? Why?”
Arthas’s white brows lifted. This one was indeed quick. He deserved a semi-truthful answer, Arthas decided. “Let’s just say that I have no love for Tichondrius, and the lord I serve would…benefit from the Legion’s downfall.”
“Why should I believe anything you say, little human?”
Arthas shrugged. “A fair question. Let me answer. My master sees all, demon hunter. He knows that you’ve sought power your whole life. Now it lies within your grasp!” His gauntleted hand clenched into a fist in front of Illidan’s blindfolded face and, as he expected, the night elf’s head turned toward the gesture. “Seize it, and your enemies will be undone.”
Illidan lifted his head slowly and turned his face to Arthas. He was unsettling, this blind man who could so obviously see. The elf stepped back, nodding thoughtfully. Without another word Arthas turned Invincible’s head around and galloped off.
Kel’Thuzad would summon him back shortly. All had gone according to the Lich King’s plan. He only hoped that Illidan had been as fully obedient as he had seemed. If not…there could be complications.
She was nothing of the living. Nor did she have the power to resist the commands of the one who had brought her screaming into this new existence.
But Sylvanas Windrunner had will. Somehow, Arthas had not broken that. He had done so with others; why was she, seemingly, the only one who had not caved utterly to him? Was it her own strength, or was it because he enjoyed tormenting her? The banshee that she was now would likely never know. But if her will was her own because Arthas found it amusing, she would have the last laugh.
So she had vowed to herself, and Sylvanas always kept her promises.
Time had passed in the world of the living since Arthas Menethil and the Scourge had swept through her beloved homeland. And much had occurred.
Her so-called “master” had objected to being used as a pawn. Together with that arrogant, floating sack of bones, Kel’Thuzad—the one responsible for corrupting the glorious Sunwell—Arthas had conspired against both the dreadlord Tichondrius and the demon lord Archimonde, whom Kel’Thuzad himself had helped usher into Azeroth. Sylvanas had paid keen attention; anything Arthas had to reveal about the way he thought and the way he battled was useful to her.
He had not attempted to slay Tichondrius himself, as he had Mal’Ganis. Oh no, the wily once-human prince had tricked another into doing his dirty work for him. Illidan, the luckless being had been named. Arthas had been able to smell Illidan’s hunger for power and used that against him, goading him into stealing the Skull of Gu
l’dan, a legendary orcish warlock. To do so, Illidan would have to kill Tichondrius. Arthas would be rid of the demon lord, and Illidan would be rewarded with an artifact to sate his lust for power. Presumably all had gone according to plan. Arthas—and therefore Sylvanas—had heard nothing of Illidan since.
As for Archimonde…so mighty that he had been able to destroy Dalaran, the great mage city, with a single spell, he had fallen to the power of the life he had come here to consume. Sylvanas now hated the living with the same passion the Legion had had, and thus it was with mixed feelings that she learned of his fall. The night elves had sacrificed their immortality to defeat him. The pure, focused power of nature had destroyed the demon from inside, and then the World Tree had surrendered its vast power in a cataclysm that sent out a massive shock wave. And when Archimonde had fallen, his skeleton all that was left, so too had the Legion’s attempt to gain a foothold in this world been defeated.
Sylvanas returned her attention from her reverie to the present, as the name of the late unlamented demon lord caught her ear.
“It’s been months since we last heard from Lord Archimonde,” their leader, Detheroc, said. He stamped his hoof impatiently. “I grow tired of watching over these rotting undead! What are we still doing here?”
They were in what had once been the gardens of the palace, where Arthas had strode so long and so short a time ago to murder his own father and unleash doom on his own people. The gardens, too, were rotting as well as their populace.
“We were charged with overseeing this land, Detheroc,” chided the one named Balnazzar. “It is our duty to remain here and ensure that the Scourge is ready for action.”
“True,” rumbled the third, Varimathras. “Although we should have received some kind of orders by now.”
Sylvanas could hardly believe what she had just heard. She turned to Kel’Thuzad. She despised him as much as she despised the death knight he appeared to serve so willingly, but she hid her dislike well. “The Legion was defeated months ago,” she said quietly. “How could they not know?”
“Impossible to say,” the lich replied. “But the longer they remain in command, the more they run the Scourge into the ground. If something is not—”
He was interrupted by a sound Sylvanas had never expected to hear in this place—the distinctive sound of a gate being battered and broken. Both undead turned at the noise, and the demons growled angrily, instantly alert, black webbed wings flexing.
Sylvanas’s glowing, spectral eyes widened slightly as none other than Arthas himself emerged through the gate. His familiar undead steed all but pranced beneath him. He wore no helm, letting his white hair fall freely about his pale face, and he wore that self-satisfied smirk that Sylvanas so despised. Her insubstantial hands attempted to clench into fists, but such was his control over her that all her fingers could manage was a brief twitch.
Arthas’s voice was resonant and cheerful. “Greetings, dreadlords,” he said. They stared at him, visibly bridling at his insolence. “I should thank you for looking after my kingdom during my absence. However, I won’t be requiring your services any longer.”
For a second, they simply gaped at him. Finally, Balnazzar recovered enough to retort, “This land is ours. The Scourge belongs to the Legion!”
Ah, thought Sylvanas, here it comes.
Arthas’s smirk widened. His voice was positively gleeful. “Not anymore, demon. Your masters have been defeated. The Legion is undone. Your deaths will complete the circle.”
Still grinning, he lifted Frostmourne. The runes along its blade danced and glowed. He tightened the reins and the skeletal horse bore down on the cluster of three demons.
“This isn’t over, human!” Detheroc cried defiantly. The dreadlords were faster than Arthas’s skeletal horse—Frostmourne sang only of frustration as it sliced through empty air. The demons had created a portal and vanished to safety. Arthas scowled, but his good humor returned quickly. Sylvanas realized it was because he had them on the run and their deaths would likely be only a matter of time.
He looked up and caught Sylvanas’s eye, beckoning her to him. She was forced to obey. Kel’Thuzad needed no coercion, floating happily to his master’s side like an obedient cur.
“We knew you would return to us, Prince Arthas!” the lich enthused.
Arthas barely spared his loyal servant a glance. His gaze was fixed on Sylvanas. “My heart is moved,” he said sarcastically. “Did you, too, know I would return, little banshee?”
“I did,” Sylvanas said coldly. It was true; he had to, or else she would never have her chance for revenge. He twitched a finger, demanding more from her, and she gasped as pain shuddered through her. “Prince Arthas,” she added.
“Ah, but you will now address me as king. This is, after all, my land. I was born to rule and I shall. Once the—”
He broke off, inhaling sharply. His eyes widened and then his face contorted in pain. He hunched over the bony neck of his horse, his gauntleted hands clenching hard on the reins. A sharp cry of agony was wrenched from him.
Sylvanas watched, experiencing the most pleasure she had known since that dreadful day when Quel’Thalas had fallen. She drank in his pain like nectar. She had no idea why he was suffering so, but she savored every second of it.
Grunting, he lifted his head. His eyes stared at something she couldn’t see, and he extended an imploring hand toward it. “The pain…is unbearable,” Arthas growled through gritted teeth. “What is happening to me?” He appeared to listen, as if an unheard voice was replying.
“King Arthas!” Kel’Thuzad cried. “Do you need assistance?”
Arthas didn’t reply at once. He gasped for breath, then slowly sat up, visibly composing himself. “No…no, the pain has passed but…my powers…are diminished.” His voice was full of puzzlement. Had Sylvanas still possessed a beating heart, it would have leaped at the words. “Something is terribly wrong here. I—”
The pain took him again. His body spasmed, his head falling back as his mouth opened in a soundless cry of pain, the veins on his neck standing out like cords. Kel’Thuzad fluttered around his adored master like a fussy nursemaid. Sylvanas simply watched coldly until the spasm had passed. Slowly, carefully, he slid off Invincible. His booted feet hit the flagstones, slipped out from under him and he fell, hard. The lich reached out a skeletal hand to help the prince—no, self-styled king—to his feet.
“My old quarters,” gasped Arthas. “I need rest—and then I have a long journey to prepare for.”
Sylvanas watched him go, staggering weakly in the direction of the rooms he had grown up in. She let her lips curve into a smile….
…and the spectral fingers on her hands twitched for a moment, then curled up into angry fists.
It was oddly peaceful in Silverpine. Soft mists swirled gently near the moist, pine-needle-covered earth. Sylvanas knew that if she had possessed physical feet, she would have felt it soft and springy beneath them; would have inhaled a rich evergreen scent from the moist air. But she felt nothing, smelled nothing. She floated, insubstantial, toward the meeting site. And such was her eagerness for the meeting that at this moment she did not regret her lack of senses.
Arthas had enjoyed turning beautiful, proud, strong-willed quel’dorei women into banshees, after his “success” with her. He had given them to she who had been their ranger-general in life, to control and command, tossing her a bone like she was a faithful hound. He would shortly see how faithful a pet she was. After overhearing the dreadlords’ conversation earlier, she had sent one of her banshees after them to speak with them and gather information.
The demons had accepted her emissary with pleasure, and had asked for her mistress to join them tonight to discuss something of “mutual benefit regarding the Banshee Queen’s current status.”
In the depths of the forest, she could see a faint green glow, and floated toward it. Sure enough, they awaited her as they had said they would—three great demons turning to her, their wi
ngs flapping and betraying their agitation.
Balnazzar spoke first. “Lady Sylvanas, we are pleased that you came.”
“How could I not?” she responded. “For some reason I no longer hear the Lich King’s voice in my head. My will is my own once again.” It was indeed; and it was purely by that will that she kept the elation from her voice. She did not wish them to know more than she chose. “You dreadlords seem to know why.”
They exchanged glances, their faces curving into smiles. “We’ve discovered that the Lich King is losing his power,” Varimathras said, hellish glee in his voice. “As it wanes, so too does his ability to command undead such as you.”
That was good news indeed, if it were actually true. But it was not specific enough for Sylvanas. “And what of King Arthas?” she pressed, unable to keep a sneer out of her voice as she used the death knight’s title. “What about his powers?”
Balnazzar waved a black-clawed hand dismissively. “He will cease to annoy us, like a summerfly whose time has come and gone. Though his runeblade, Frostmourne, carries powerful enchantments, Arthas’s own powers will fade in time. It is inevitable.”
Sylvanas was not so certain. She, too, had once underestimated Arthas, and along with the cold hatred in her heart, she also bore guilt for her part in his blood-soaked victory. “You seek to overthrow him, and want my help to do it,” she said bluntly.
Detheroc, the one who appeared to be in charge, had stood quietly by while his brothers spoke to Sylvanas. They had been angry and impassioned, but his expression had remained neutral. Now, at last he spoke, in cold tones of utter loathing.
“The Legion may be defeated, but we are the nathrezim. We’ll not let some upstart human get the best of us.” He paused, looking at them each in turn. “Arthas must fall!”
Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6 Page 25
