Arthas: Rise of the Lich King wow-6

by Christie Golden

  Somehow Flamestrike was there. The blades again strained against each other. Kael’thas’s eyes burned with hatred.

  But Arthas was the stronger in armed combat; stronger, with the stronger sword, despite Kael’s gloating about how Felo’melorn was reforged. Slowly, inexorably, as Arthas knew must happen, Frostmourne descended toward Kael’thas’s bare throat.

  “…she hates you,” Kael whispered.

  Arthas cried out, fury blurring his vision for a moment, and shoved down with all his strength.

  Into the snow and frozen earth.

  Kael’thas was gone.

  “Coward!” Arthas cried, although he knew the prince would not hear him. The bastard had again teleported away at the last second. Fury raged in him, threatening to cloud his judgment, and he pushed it aside. He’d been foolish to let Kael’thas rile him so.

  Curse you, Jaina. Even now, you haunt me.

  “Invincible, to me!” he cried, and realized his voice was shaking. Kael’thas was not dead, but he was out of the way, and that was all that mattered. He wheeled the head of his skeletal horse around, and charged again toward the fray and the throne chamber of his master.

  He moved through the milling crowd of enemies as if they were so many insects. As they fell, he reanimated them and sent them against their fellows. The tide of the undead was unstoppable and implacable. The snow around the base of the spire was churned up and drenched with blood. Arthas looked about him, at the last few knots of fighting going on. Blood elves—but no sign of their master.

  Where was Illidan?

  A flurry of quick motion caught his eye and he turned. He growled beneath his breath. Another dreadlord. This one’s back was toward him, black wings outstretched, cloven hooves melting into the snow.

  Arthas lifted Frostmourne. “I’ve defeated your kind before, dreadlord,” he snarled. “Turn and face me, if you dare, or flee into the Nether like the coward you demons are.”

  The figure turned, slowly. Massive horns crowned its head. Its lips curved back in a smile. And over its eyes was a ragged black blindfold. Two green, glowing spots appeared where eyes should have been.

  “Hello, Arthas.”

  Deep and sinister, the voice had changed, but not as much as the kaldorei’s body. It was still the same pale lavender hue, etched with the same tattoos and scarifications. But the legs, the wings, the horns…Arthas immediately understood what must have happened. So that was why Illidan had become so powerful.

  “You look different, Illidan. I guess the Skull of Gul’dan didn’t agree with you.”

  Illidan threw back his horned head. Dark, rich laughter rumbled from him. “On the contrary, I have never felt better. In a way, I suppose I should thank you for my present state, Arthas.”

  “Show your appreciation by stepping out of the way, then.” Arthas’s voice was suddenly cold, and there was no trace of humor in it. “The Frozen Throne is mine, demon. Step aside. Leave this world and never return. If you do, I’ll be waiting.”

  “We both have our masters, boy. Mine demands the destruction of the Frozen Throne. It would seem we are at odds,” Illidan replied, and lifted the weapon Arthas had fought once before. His powerful hands with their sharp black nails closed on the weapon’s center and he whirled it with grace and a deceptive casualness. Arthas knew a ripple of uncertainty at the display. He had just finished a fight with Kael’thas, and while he would have been the victor had not the elf, coward that he was, teleported out at the last instant, he had been taxed by the battle. There was no hint of weariness in Illidan’s bearing.

  Illidan’s smile grew as he noticed his enemy’s discomfiture. He allowed himself a moment more of uncannily masterful handling of the unusual, demonic weapon, then struck a position, settling in, preparing for combat. “It must be done!”

  “Your troops are either in pieces or part of my army.” Arthas drew Frostmourne. Its runes glowed brightly, and mist curled up from its hilt. Behind the blindfold, Illidan’s eyes—much brighter and more intensely green than he remembered—narrowed at the sight of the runeblade. If the demonically-changed kaldorei had a powerful weapon, so too did Arthas. “You’ll end up one or the other.”

  “Doubtful,” Illidan sneered. “I am stronger than you know, and my master created yours! Come, pawn. I’ll dispatch the servant before I dispatch your pathetic—”

  Arthas charged. Frostmourne glowed and hummed in his hands, as eager for Illidan’s death as he was. The elf did not seem at all startled by the sudden rush, and with the utmost ease lifted his double-bladed weapon to parry. Frostmourne had broken ancient and powerful swords before, but this time, it simply clanged and grated against the glowing green metal.

  Illidan gave him a smirk as he held his ground. Arthas again felt unease flicker through him. Illidan was indeed changed by absorbing the power of the Skull of Gul’dan; for one thing, he was physically much stronger than he had been. Illidan chuckled, a deep and ugly sound, then shoved forcefully. It was Arthas who was forced to fall back, dropping to one knee to defend himself as the demon bore down on him.

  “It is sweet to turn the tables thus,” Illidan growled. “I might just kill you quickly, death knight, if you give me a good fight.”

  Arthas didn’t waste breath on insults. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on battling back the blows that were being rained upon him. The weapon was a swirl of glowing green. He could feel the power of demonic energy radiating from it, just as he knew that Illidan could sense Frostmourne’s grim darkness.

  Suddenly Illidan was not there and Arthas lurched forward, his momentum taking him off balance. He heard a flapping sound and whirled to see Illidan overhead, his great, leathery wings creating a strong wind as he hovered out of reach.

  They eyed each other, Arthas catching his breath. He could see Illidan was not unaffected by the battle either. Sweat gleamed on the massive, lavender-hued torso. Arthas settled himself, Frostmourne at the ready for when Illidan would swoop in for a renewed assault.

  Then Illidan did something utterly unexpected. He laughed, shifted the weapon in his hands—and in a flurry of motion seemingly snapped it in two. Each powerful hand now held a single blade.

  “Behold the Twin Blades of Azzinoth,” Illidan gloated. He flew up higher, whirling the blades in his left and right hands, and Arthas realized that he favored neither one. “Two magnificent warglaives. They can be wielded as a single devastating weapon…or, as you see, as two. It was the favored weapon of a doomguard—a powerful demon captain whom I slew. Ten thousand years ago. How long have you fought with your pretty blade, human? How well do you know it?”

  The words were intended to unsettle the death knight. Instead, they invigorated him. Illidan might have had this admittedly powerful weapon for longer—but Frostmourne was bound to Arthas, and he to it. It was not a sword as much as an extension of himself. He had known it when he first had the vision of it, when he had just arrived in Northrend. He had been certain of the connection when he laid eyes upon it, waiting for him. And now he felt it surge in his hand, confirming their unity.

  The demon blades gleamed. Illidan dropped down on Arthas like a stone. Arthas cried out and countered, more certain of this blow than of any he had dealt with the runeblade before, swinging Frostmourne up underneath the descending demon. And as he knew must happen, he felt the sword bite deep into flesh. He pulled, drawing the gash across Illidan’s torso, and felt a deep satisfaction as the former kaldorei screamed in agony.

  And yet the bastard would not fall. Illidan’s wings beat erratically, still somehow keeping him aloft, and then before Arthas’s shocked gaze his body seemed to shift and darken…almost as if it was made of writhing black, purple, and green smoke.

  “This is what you have given me,” Illidan cried. His voice, bass to begin with, had somehow grown even deeper. Arthas felt it shiver along his bones. The demon’s eyes glowed fiercely in the swirling darkness that was his face. “This gift—this power. And it will destroy you!”


  A scream was torn from Arthas’s throat, and he fell again to his knees. Blazing green fire chased itself along his armor, seared his flesh, even dulled Frostmourne’s blue glow for a moment. Over the raw cry of his own torment he heard Illidan laughing. Again the fel fire cascaded over him and Arthas fell forward, gasping. But as the fire faded and he saw Illidan swooping in for the kill, he felt the ancient runeblade he still managed to grasp urge him to rally.

  Frostmourne was his, and he its, and so united, they were invincible.

  Just as Illidan lifted his blades for the kill, Arthas raised Frostmourne, thrusting upward with all his strength. He felt the blade connect, pierce flesh, strike deep.

  Illidan fell hard to the ground. Blood gushed from his bare torso, melting the snow around it with a slow hissing sound. His chest rose and fell in gasps. His vaunted twin blades were of no use now. One had been knocked from his grasp, the other lay in a hand that could not even curl around its hilt. Arthas got to his feet, his body still tingling with the remnants of the fel fire Illidan had hurled at him. He stared at him for a long moment, branding the sight into his mind. He thought about dealing the killing blow, but decided to let the merciless cold of the place do it for him. A greater need burned in him now, and he turned, lifting his eyes to the spire that towered above him.

  He swallowed hard and simply stood for a moment, knowing, without knowing how he knew it, that something was about to fundamentally change. Then he took a deep breath and entered the cavern.

  Arthas moved almost as if in a daze, down the lengths of twining tunnels that led ever deeper into the bowels of the earth. His feet seemed guided, and while there was no noise, certainly no one to challenge his right to be here, he felt, rather than heard, a deep thrum of power. He continued to descend, feeling that call of power drawing him ever closer to his destiny.

  Up ahead was a cold, blue-white light. Arthas moved toward it, almost breaking into a run, and the tunnel opened up into what Arthas could only think of as a throne chamber. For just ahead was a structure that made Arthas’s breath catch in his throat.

  The Lich King’s prison sat atop of this twining tower, this spire of blue-green, shimmering ice-that-was-not-ice that rose up as if to pierce the very roof of the cavern. A narrow walkway wound, serpentine, about the spire, leading him upward. Still filled with the energy granted to him by the Lich King, Arthas did not tire, but unwelcome memories seemed to dart at him like flies as he ascended, putting one booted foot in front of the other. Words, phrases, images came back to him.

  “Remember, Arthas. We are paladins. Vengeance cannot be a part of what we must do. If we allow our passions to turn to bloodlust, then we will become as vile as the orcs.”

  Jaina…oh, Jaina…“No one can seem to deny you anything, least of all me.”

  “Don’t deny me, Jaina. Don’t ever deny me. Please.”

  “I never would, Arthas. Never.”

  He kept going, relentlessly moving upward.

  “We know so little—we can’t just slaughter them like animals out of our own fear!”

  “This is bad business, lad. Leave it be. Let it stay here, lost and forgotten…. We’ll find another way tae save yer people. Let’s leave now, go back, and find that way.”

  One foot followed the other. Upward, ever upward. An image of black wings brushed his memory.

  “I will leave you one final prediction. Just remember, the harder you strive to slay your enemies, the faster you’ll deliver your people into their hands.”

  Even as these memories tugged at him, clutched at his heart, there was one image, one voice, that was stronger and more compelling than all the others, whispering, encouraging him: “Closer you draw, my champion. My moment of freedom comes…and with it, your ascension to true power.”

  Upward he climbed, his gaze ever on the peak. On the huge chunk of deep blue ice that imprisoned the one who had first set Arthas’s feet on this path. Closer it drew, until Arthas came to a halt a few feet away. For a long moment, he regarded the figure trapped within, imperfectly glimpsed. Mist rolled off the huge chunk of ice, further obscuring the image.

  Frostmourne glowed in his hand. From deep inside, Arthas saw the barest hint of an answering flare of two points of glowing blue light.

  “RETURN THE BLADE,” came the deep, rasping voice in Arthas’s mind, almost unbearably loud. “COMPLETE THE CIRCLE. RELEASE ME FROM THIS PRISON!”

  Arthas took a step forward, then another, lifting Frostmourne as he moved until he was running. This was the moment it had all been leading to, and without realizing it, a roar built in his throat and tore free as he swung the blade down with all of his strength.

  A massive cracking resounded through the chamber as Frostmourne slammed down. The ice shattered, huge chunks flying in every direction. Arthas lifted his arms to shield himself, but the shards flew past him harmlessly. Pieces fell from the imprisoned body, and the Lich King cried out, lifting his armored arms to the sky. More groaning, cracking sounds came from the cavern and from the being himself, so loud that Arthas winced and covered his ears. It was as if the very world was tearing itself apart. Suddenly the armored figure that was the Lich King seemed to shatter as his prison did, falling apart before Arthas’s stunned gaze.

  There was nothing—no one—inside.

  Only the armor, icy black, clattering to lie in pieces. The helm, empty of its owner’s head, slid to a halt to lie at Arthas’s feet. He stared down at it for a long moment, a deep shiver passing through him.

  All this time…he had been chasing a ghost. Had the Lich King ever really been here? If not—who had thrust Frostmourne from the ice? Who had demanded to be freed? Was he, Arthas Menethil, supposed to have been the one encased in the Frozen Throne all along?

  Had this ghost he’d been chasing…been himself?

  Questions that would likely never have answers. But one thing was clear to him. As Frostmourne had been for him, so was the armor. Gauntleted fingers closed over the spiked helm and he lifted it slowly, reverently, and then, closing his eyes, he lowered it onto his white head.

  He was suddenly galvanized, his body tensing as he felt the essence of the Lich King enter him. It pierced his heart, stopped his breath, shivered along his veins, icy, powerful, crashing through him like a tidal wave. His eyes were closed, but he saw, he saw so much—all that Ner’zhul, the orc shaman, had known, all he had seen, had done. For a moment, Arthas feared he would be overwhelmed by it all, that in the end, the Lich King had tricked him into coming here so that he could place his essence in a fresh new body. He braced himself for a battle for control, with his body as the prize.

  But there was no struggle. Only a blending, a melding. All around him, the cavern continued to collapse. Arthas was only barely aware of it. His eyes darted rapidly back and forth beneath his closed lids.

  His lips moved. He spoke.

  They…spoke.

  “Now…we are one.”

  EPILOGUE: THE LICH KING

  The blue and white world blurred in Arthas’s dream vision. The cold, pure colors shifted, changed to the warm hues of wood and fire-and torchlight. He had done as he said he would; he had remembered his life, all that had gone before, had again walked the path that had taken him to the seat of the Frozen Throne and this deep, deep dreaming state.

  But the dream was not over, it would seem. He again sat at the head of the long, beautifully carved table that took up most of this illusionary Great Hall.

  And the two who had such an interest in his dream were still there, watching him.

  The orc on his left, elderly but still powerful, searched his face, and then began to smile, the gesture stretching the image of the white skull painted on his face. And on his right, the boy—the emaciated, sickly boy—looked even worse than Arthas remembered him looking when he had entered the dream of remembrance.

  The boy licked cracked, pale lips and drew breath as if to speak, but it was the orc whose words shattered the stillness first.

  “Th
ere is so much more,” he promised.

  Images crowded Arthas’s mind, interweaving and lying atop one another into glimpses of the future and past entangled. An army of humans on horseback, carrying the flag of Stormwind…fighting alongside, not against, a Horde raiding party mounted atop snarling wolves. They were allies, attacking the Scourge together. The scene shifted, changed. Now the humans and orcs were attacking one another—and the undead, some crying out orders and fighting with minds that were clearly their own—were standing shoulder to shoulder with the orcs, strange-looking bull-men, and trolls.

  Quel’Thalas—undamaged? No, no, there was the scar he and his army had left—but the city was being rebuilt….

  Faster now the images poured into his mind, dizzying, chaotic, disordered. It was impossible to tell the past from the future now. Another image, that of skeletal dragons raining destruction down on a city Arthas had never seen before—a hot, dry place crowded with orcs. And—yes, yes it was Stormwind itself that was now coming under attack from the undead dragons—

  Nerubians—no, no, not nerubians, not Anub’arak’s people, but kin to them, yes. A desert race, these were. Their servants were mammoth creatures with the heads of dogs, golems made of obsidian, who strode across the shining yellow stands.

  A symbol appeared, one Arthas knew—the L of Lordaeron, impaled by a sword, but depicted in red, not blue. The symbol changed, became a red flame on a white background. The flame seemed to spark to a life of its own and engulfed the background, burning it away to reveal the silvery waters of a vast expanse of water…a sea…

  …Something was roiling just beneath the ocean’s surface. The hitherto-smooth surface began to churn wildly, seething, as if from a storm, although the day was clear. A horrible sound that Arthas only dimly recognized as laughter assaulted his ears, along with the screaming of a world wrenched from its proper place, hauled upward to face the light of day it had not seen in uncounted centuries….